Sycamore Row (14 page)

Another cake arrived before noon and Lettie tried to decline it. She eventually sat it on the kitchen counter where she was wiping pots for the last time. The Dafoes said a quick good-bye, but only because they really couldn’t leave without doing so. Ramona promised to keep in touch and so on. Lettie watched them get in the car without saying a word. It would be a long drive back to Jackson.

At noon, Calvin arrived as planned, and at the kitchen table Herschel handed over a key to the new door locks. Calvin was to check on the house every other day, keep the grass cut, leaves blown, the usual.

When Calvin was gone, Herschel said, “So, Lettie, I figure we owe you for eighteen hours, at five bucks each, right?”

“Whatever you say.”

He was writing a check as he stood by the counter. “Ninety dollars,” he mumbled with a frown, still wanting to gripe over her excessive pay. He signed it, tore it out, handed it over, and said, “There you are,” as if it were a gift.

“Thank you.”

“Thanks, Lettie, for taking care of Dad and the house and everything. I know this is not easy.”

Firmly, she said, “I understand.”

“The way things go, I’m sure we’ll never see you again, but I just want you to know how much we appreciate what you did for our dad.”

Such a load of crap, Lettie thought, but she said, “Thank you.” Her eyes were watering as she folded the check.

After an awkward pause, he said, “Well, Lettie, I’d like for you to leave now so I can lock up.”

“Yes sir.”

10

Three well-dressed lawyers from out of town strutting through the courthouse on a dull Wednesday morning were bound to attract attention, which didn’t seem to bother them at all. One lawyer could have easily performed the menial task, but three could charge triple for it. They ignored the local lawyers and the clerks and the courthouse regulars in the hallways and purposefully entered the office of the Chancery Clerk. There they were met by Sara, who’d been alerted by Jake Brigance, who’d been alerted by a surprise call from Lettie Lang, then still at Seth’s house, with the news that an entire pack of lawyers had just left and was headed for Clanton.

Stillman Rush flashed a killer smile at Sara, who was slowly chewing gum and glaring at the men as if they were trespassers. “We’re from the Rush law firm in Tupelo,” he announced, and not one of the other three clerks looked up. The soft music from a radio failed to stop.

“Congratulations,” Sara said. “Welcome to Clanton.”

Lewis McGwyre had opened his fine briefcase and was removing papers. Stillman said, “Yes, well, we need to file a petition to probate an estate.” With a flurry, the paperwork landed on the counter in front of Sara, who, chewing, looked at it without touching it. “Who died?” she asked.

“A man named Seth Hubbard,” Stillman said, an octave higher but still not loud enough to draw the attention of anyone in the office of the Ford County Chancery Clerk.

“Never heard of him,” Sara deadpanned. “He lived in this county?”

“He did, up near Palmyra.”

She finally touched the papers, picked them up, and immediately began frowning. “When’d he die?” she asked.

“Last Sunday.”

“They buried him yet?”

Stillman almost blurted, “Is that really any of your business?” but he caught himself. He was on foreign soil and alienating the underlings could only cause trouble. He swallowed, managed a smile, and said, “Yesterday.”

Sara’s eyes rolled up the wall as if she were bothered by something. “Seth Hubbard? Seth Hubbard?” Over her shoulder she said, “Hey Eva, didn’t we get something already on Seth Hubbard?” From thirty feet away Eva replied, “Late yesterday. A new file in the rack over there.”

Sara took a few steps, yanked out a file, and scanned it as the three lawyers froze and watched every move. Finally, she said, “Yep, got a petition to probate the last will and testament of Mr. Henry Seth Hubbard, filed at 4:55 yesterday afternoon.”

Each of the three lawyers attempted to say something at once, but none could do so. Finally, Stillman managed a weak “What the hell?”

“I didn’t file it,” Sara said. “I’m just a lowly clerk.”

“Is that a public record?” Mr. McGwyre asked.

“It is.” She slid the file onto the counter and all three heads grouped over it, ear to ear to ear. Sara turned around, winked at the other girls, and returned to her desk.

Five minutes later, Roxy buzzed Jake on his phone intercom. “Mr. Brigance, there are some gentlemen here to see you.” From the terrace, Jake had watched them storm out of the courthouse and march in his direction.

“Do they have an appointment?”

“No sir, and they say it’s urgent.”

“I’m in a meeting which will take another thirty minutes,” Jake said in his empty office. “They’re welcome to wait.”

Roxy, who’d been quickly briefed, put the phone down and delivered the message. The lawyers frowned and exhaled and fidgeted and finally decided to step out for some coffee. At the door, Stillman said, “Please explain to Mr. Brigance that this is an urgent matter.”

“That’s already been done.”

“Yes, well, thanks.”

Jake heard the door close solidly and smiled to himself. They would be back and he looked forward to the meeting. He returned his attention to the latest weekly edition of
The Ford County Times
, published early each Wednesday morning and a rich source of local news. On the front page, below the fold, there was a brief story about the death of Mr. Seth Hubbard, an “apparent suicide.” The reporter had followed leads and done some digging. Unnamed sources whispered that Mr. Hubbard had once had extensive holdings in lumber, furniture, and timber rights throughout the Southeast. He had unloaded most of his assets less than a year ago. No one from his family had returned calls. There was a portrait photo of Seth as a much younger man. He looked nothing like the poor guy hanging from a rope in Ozzie’s grisly death scene photos. But, then, who would?

Twenty minutes later the lawyers were back. Roxy parked them in the conference room on the first floor. They stood by the window and watched the languid prelunch traffic around the square and waited. Occasionally, they would whisper to one another, as if the room had bugs and someone else might be listening. Finally, Mr. Brigance entered and welcomed them. There were forced smiles and stiff but courteous handshakes, and when they were finally seated Roxy asked about coffee or water. Everyone declined, and she closed the door and disappeared.

Jake and Stillman had finished law school at Ole Miss ten years earlier, and though they had known each other during that ordeal, and often had classes together, they ran in different circles. As the favored son in a family who owned a law firm claiming to be a hundred years old, Stillman’s future was secure before he briefed his first case in Contracts. Jake and virtually all of the others were forced to scramble for employment. To his credit, Stillman worked hard to prove himself and graduated in the top 10 percent. Jake was not far behind. As lawyers, their paths had crossed once since law school when Lucien ordered Jake to file an unpromising sex discrimination case against an employer, one represented by the Rush law firm. The outcome was a draw, but during the process Jake came to despise Stillman. He’d been tolerable in law school, but a few years in the trenches had made him a big shot in a big firm with the requisite ego. He wore his blond hair a bit longer now and it flipped up around his ears, contrasting nicely with the fine black wool suit he was wearing.

Jake had never met Mr. McGwyre or Mr. Larkin, but he knew them by reputation. It was a small state.

“To what do I owe this honor, gentlemen?” Jake began.

“Oh, I think you’ve figured it out by now, Jake,” Stillman replied smugly. “I saw you at Mr. Hubbard’s funeral yesterday. We’ve read his holographic will and it’s rather self-explanatory.”

“It’s deficient in many ways,” Lewis McGwyre inserted gravely.

“I didn’t prepare it,” Jake shot across the table.

“But you’re offering it for probate,” Stillman said. “Obviously you must think it’s valid.”

“I have no reason to think otherwise. The will came to me in the mail. I was directed to probate it. Here we are.”

“But how can you advocate for something as shoddy as this?” Sam Larkin asked, gently lifting a copy of the will. Jake glared at him with all the contempt he could generate. Typical big-firm asshole. Far superior to the rest of us because you bill by the hour and get paid for it. In your well-educated and learned opinion this will is “shoddy” and thus invalid; therefore, everyone else’s opinion should fall in line.

Jake kept his cool and said, “It’s a waste of time for us to sit here and debate the merits of Mr. Hubbard’s handwritten will. Let’s save that for the courtroom.” And with that, Jake delivered the first salvo. The courtroom was, after all, where he’d made his reputation, whatever it happened to be. Mr. McGwyre prepared wills and Mr. Larkin prepared contracts, and, as far as Jake could tell, Stillman’s specialty was defending commercial arson cases, though he fancied himself an aggressive courtroom lawyer.

The courtroom, Jake’s courtroom, the one across the street in his courthouse, was where the great Hailey trial had raged barely three years earlier, and though the other three would not admit it, they too had watched that trial keenly from a distance. Like every lawyer in the state, they had been green with envy at Jake’s exposure.

“Is it fair to ask about your relationship with Seth Hubbard?” Stillman asked politely.

“Never met the man. He died Sunday and his will arrived in my mailbox on Monday.”

They were fascinated by this and took a moment to absorb it. Jake decided to press on: “I’ll admit I’ve never had a case like this, never probated a handwritten will. I assume you have plenty of copies of the old one, the one your firm prepared last year. Don’t suppose I could have a copy, could I?”

They shifted and glanced at each other. Stillman said, “Well, Jake, if that will had been admitted to probate, then it would be public
and we’d give you a copy. However, we withdrew it once we learned another will was already in play. So I guess our will is still a confidential document.”

“Fair enough.”

The three continued to exchange nervous looks and it was apparent none of them knew exactly what to do next. Jake said nothing but enjoyed watching their discomfort. Stillman, the litigator, said, “So, uh, Jake, we ask you to withdraw the handwritten will and allow us to proceed with the authentic one.”

“The answer is no.”

“No surprise. How do you suggest we proceed?”

“It’s very simple, Stillman. Let’s file a joint request with the court to have a hearing to address the situation. Judge Atlee will look at both wills, and, believe me, he’ll devise a game plan. I practice in his court every month and there’s no doubt who’ll be in charge.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” Lewis McGwyre said. “I’ve known Reuben for many years, and I think we should start with him.”

“I’ll be happy to arrange things,” Jake said.

“So you haven’t spoken to him yet?” Stillman asked.

“Of course not. He knows nothing about this. The funeral was yesterday, remember?”

They managed to exchange cordial good-byes and separate peacefully, though all four knew they were in for a brawl.

Lucien was sitting on his front porch, drinking what appeared to be lemonade, which he occasionally did when his body and his life became so overwhelmed with sour mash that he managed to break free for a week or so and suffer the horrors of detox. The porch wrapped around an old house on a hill just outside Clanton, with a view of the town below and the courthouse cupola square in the middle. The house, like most of Lucien’s assets and burdens, was a hand-me-down from ancestors he deemed wretched, but who, with hindsight, had done an admirable job of securing for him a comfortable life. Lucien was sixty-three but an old man, his face grizzled and whiskered gray to match his long unkempt hair. The whiskey and cigarettes were adding patches of wrinkles to his face. Too much time on the porch was adding a thickness to his waist and a gloominess to his always complicated moods.