Sycamore Row (Jake Brigance, #2)

by John Grisham

and farm laborer Seth had employed for several years. Early Sunday morning, Calvin had received a call from his boss. “Meet me at the bridge at 2:00 p.m.,” Seth said. He didn’t explain

testament?” Jake asked. Probate work was not his favorite, but a sizable estate usually meant a decent fee for

exceptions, the buildings were two-story redbrick with wrought-iron laced terraces overhanging the sidewalks that ran in a perfect square around the courthouse and its lawn. Clanton wasn’t exactly prospering, but it wasn’t dying either like so many small towns in the rural South. The 1980 census put the population at just over eight thousand, four times that much for the entire county, and the numbers were expected to increase slightly after the next head count. There were no empty storefronts, nothing boarded up, no “For Lease” signs

regular-sized envelope of the day, Jake glanced at his name written in blue ink, cursive. The return address

contents. Still, he felt as though he was handling a ticking bomb. Slowly,

“I’m going to be a witness?” “Maybe, maybe not, but we’re just taking precautions,

waited for details of the drug bust that caught their kids. The phones rang more than usual and often went unanswered. Deputies milled about choking down doughnuts and sipping strong coffee. Add to the usual frenzy the bizarre suicide of a mysterious man, and the cluttered

especially busy that Monday morning. In the rear of the appendage, down a short hallway, there was a thick door covered in white hand-painted lettering that read: OZZIE WALLS, HIGH SHERIFF, FORD COUNTY. The door was closed; the sheriff was in early on Monday, and on the phone. The caller was an emotional woman from Memphis whose child had been caught driving a pickup truck that was hauling, among other things, a sizable quantity of marijuana. This had happened the previous Saturday night near Lake Chatulla, in an area of a state park where illicit behavior was known to be

buried under a rock.” “Smart man.” “He owns some land and has always dabbled in timber. Beyond that, I don’t know.” “What about his two adult children?” “I talked to Herschel Hubbard around five yesterday afternoon, broke the bad news. He lives in Memphis, but I didn’t get much information. He said he would call his sister, Ramona, and they would hustle on over. Seth left a sheet of paper with some instructions on

them even more suspicious. She served them lunch on the patio at 2:00 p.m., during a break in the visitation. They insisted on having a cloth on the picnic table, and linens and silver, though Seth’s collection had been badly neglected for many years. Unspoken were their feelings that, at $5 an hour, the least Lettie could do was act like a real servant. As she buzzed about, she overheard them discussing who would attend the funeral and who would not. Ian, for

Ancil, a man they had never met and knew nothing about. According to what scarce family lore existed, Ancil had lied about his age and joined the Navy at sixteen or seventeen. He’d been wounded in the Pacific, survived, then drifted around the world at various jobs in the shipping business. Seth lost contact with his younger brother decades earlier and never mentioned him. There was no way to contact Ancil and clearly no reason to do so. He was probably as dead as Seth. They talked about some old family relatives, none of whom they’d seen in years, none of whom they wanted to see now. What a sad, curious family, Lettie thought as she served them a selection of cakes. It was shaping up to be a small and quick funeral service. “Let’s get her outta here,” Herschel said when Lettie returned to the kitchen. “We’re getting ripped off at five bucks an hour.” “We? Since when are we paying her?” Ramona asked. “Oh, she’s on our clock now, one way or the other. Everything’s coming out of the estate.” “I’m not cleaning the house, Herschel, are you?” “Of course not.” Ian spoke up: “Let’s play it cool, get through the funeral and all, tell her to clean the house, then we’ll lock it up when we leave on Wednesday.” “Who tells her she’s out of a job?” Ramona asked. “I’ll do it,” Herschel said. “No big deal. She’s just a maid.” “There’s something fishy about her,” Ian said. “Can’t put my finger on it, but she acts like she knows something we don’t, something important. Ya’ll feel that way?”...

stayed away for many reasons, not the least of which was Lettie’s mother. Lettie said, “Mrs. Dafoe sent us a cake. Would you like a small piece?” “What kind?” Though she weighed a ton, Cypress could be a picky eater. “Well, it’s a pineapple something or other, not sure I’ve seen it before, but it might be worth a try. Would you like some coffee with it?” “Yes, and just a small piece.” “Let’s sit out back, Momma, and get some fresh air.” “I’d like that.” The wheelchair could barely squeeze between the sofa and the television, and it fit tightly in the narrow hallway into the kitchen. It rubbed alongside the table, inched through the rear door, and with Lettie pushing gently it rolled onto the sagging wooden deck Simeon had thrown together years earlier. When the weather was nice, Lettie liked a late afternoon coffee or iced tea outside, away from the noise and stuffiness of the cramped house. There were too many people for a small house with only three tiny bedrooms. Cypress had one. Lettie and Simeon—whenever he was home—shared another, usually with a grandchild or two. Their daughters somehow survived shoulder to shoulder in the third bedroom. Clarice, age sixteen, was in high school and had no children. Phedra, age twenty-one, had a kindergartner, a first grader, and no husband. Their younger son, Kirk, fourteen, slept on the sofa in the den. It was not at all uncommon for nieces and nephews to stay a few months while their parents sorted things out. Cypress took a sip o...

began looking around. Grouped together

total. Ozzie nodded

cemetery. They’d had enough of Seth Hubbard for one day. Their farewell

court file certainly is not.” She stamped

Clanton said she’d never heard of Lettie Lang. No one seemed to know Seth Hubbard. They chatted awhile,

“It’s funny. I’ve lived here all my life, never heard of Seth Hubbard. My dad’s eighty, lived here all his life, and he’s never heard of Seth Hubbard.” “There are thirty-two thousand people in this county, Mike. You can’t know all of them.” “Ozzie does.” They had a quick laugh. Nesbit flipped his cigarette butt into the street and stretched his back. “Guess I need to get home, Jake.” “Thanks for stopping by. I’ll talk to Ozzie tomorrow.” “You

him.” “I’m sure that’ll be argued.” Amburgh reached for a pocket and said, “Mind

state.” “You’re right—you don’t have to serve

a deep breath and clutched the wheel and hated the thought of seeing

and were great admirers. What a man. It was entirely possible

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

table at the other end of the porch where Sallie was arranging lunch—butter beans, squash, stewed tomatoes, and corn bread. They filled their plates, and she disappeared again. After a few bites, in total silence, Jake asked, “Did you ever know Seth Hubbard?” “I saw it in the paper this morning. Quite sad. I met him once or twice fifteen years ago, some trifling legal matter. Never sued him, though, so I’ll always regret that. He might’ve had some assets. I tried to sue everyone with assets,

question.” “Come on. Play along. Humor me.

The size of the estate began to grow.

… furniture and lumber … pretty amazing … had no idea … just saw the will … 40 percent, after taxes

a divorce, he’d still get a piece of her inheritance, right? He thought about calling his lawyer, but wisely

hope I didn’t disturb. We’re on our way back to Tupelo.” “Not at all. We’re on the Trace with a couple of hours to go. Nothing to do but talk.” “Yes, well, look, there’s been a slight complication, so I’ll just go ahead and get right to the point.” His voice had a nervous tinge to it, and Ian knew immediately that something was wrong. Ramona sat up in the rear seat and rubbed her swollen eyes. Stillman went on: “We didn’t get the chance to open Mr. Hubbard’s estate after we saw you this morning because another will

the will and it clearly says 90 percent.” “Handwritten?

Memphis. Dozens of shiny new BMWs glistened in perfect rows along the street. He’d fought himself over this ridiculous stop, and made peace only with a compromise that was to include a chat with a salesman but certainly no test-drive. Not yet anyway. As he reached to turn off the radio, his car phone rang. It was Stillman Rush. He began with a nervous “Herschel, there’s a new wrinkle.” Lettie arrived alone. Jake followed her up the stairs to the big office, where he closed the door and directed her to a small sitting area with a sofa and chairs. He took off his tie and poured coffee and tried

Hubbard, Mr. Seth, or just Seth?” Deliberately, she said, “When it was just the two of us, I called him Seth because that’s what he wanted. If anybody else was around, I always called him Mr.

where she looked through the glass, across the sidewalk and the street, as if she preferred to stay inside where she knew it was safe. She had been jolted

on the trail.” “Oh come on.” “Not kidding. Said he might stop by this afternoon and poke around in Seth Hubbard’s dirty laundry.” “What’s dirty about it?” Jake asked as he took the slip. “Everything’s dirty to Doofus.” Dumas Lee wrote for The Ford County Times and was famous for screwing up the facts and barely dodging libel suits. While sloppy and easily avoidable, his errors were usually minor

he hung up.” “No comment.” “So if I say that Mr. Hubbard

two.” “Fair enough. Any idea where Ancil Hubbard is these days?” “None whatsoever.” “I found a cousin in Tupelo who says the family has assumed he’s been dead for decades.” “I have not had time to search for Ancil.” “But you will?” “Yes, he’s a beneficiary under the will. It’s my job to locate him if possible, or find out what happened to him.” “And how will you go about

want

proceed. As I understand it, Mr. Seth Hubbard left two wills. One offered

He paused for only a second as his large brown eyes swept around

“Over here,” Judge Atlee said, pointing to the crowded defense table. Stillman Rush was quick to rise and say, “Yes, Your Honor, I’m Stillman Rush with the Rush firm in Tupelo, and I’m here with Sam Larkin and Lewis McGwyre.” Both men stood on cue and nodded politely to the bench. They knew Judge Atlee; longer introductions were not needed. “And your firm prepared the 1987 will, is that correct?” “That

guarded by a couple of pit bull lawyers who were ready for an alley fight over the fortune. And these were the people on his side of the room! Across the aisle, an entire pack of hyenas was waiting to pounce. Judge Atlee said, “I’ve read both wills. We will proceed with the last one, the handwritten will dated October 1. A petition to probate it was filed on October 4. Mr. Brigance, you will begin the administration of the estate as required by law—posting the notification to creditors, filing a preliminary inventory, and so on. I expect

allowing him to withdraw, and at the same time I’ll submit names for his replacement.” “Please make

glasses and said, “We will proceed as follows. Mr. Brigance, you have ten days to find a substitute executor, and, according to the wishes of the deceased, let’s make sure it’s not a lawyer from this county.

the case in an efficient manner. Any questions?” Oh, a thousand questions, but there would be plenty of time to ask them later. Suddenly, Booker Sistrunk rose, and in his booming baritone said, “Your Honor, I’m not sure what’s appropriate at this time, but I would like to suggest that my client, Lettie Lang, be appointed as the substitute executor to take the place of Mr. Amburgh. I have reviewed the law of this state and have found no provision requiring a lawyer or an accountant or the like to serve in this role. Indeed, the law sets forth no requirements for training or experience for one to serve as either an administrator, in the case of an estate with no will, or an executor, in a case like this.” Sistrunk spoke slowly, carefully, with

the court, of course, and for that reason I’d suggest that my firm be designated as counsel of record in this matter. We will work closely with our client, Ms. Lettie Lang, to follow the precise dictates of Mr. Hubbard’s wishes. If necessary, we will consult with Mr. Brigance, a fine young lawyer in

Their girl Lettie had been chosen to receive the money, and they were

world. Put nine or ten white folks from Ford County on the jury, make them suffer through a week with Booker Sistrunk, and Ms. Lettie Lang would leave with nothing. The horde of white lawyers sat as stunned as Jake, but Wade Lanier quickly saw the opportunity. He jumped to his feet and blurted, “We have no objection, Your Honor.” Judge Atlee snapped, “You have no standing to object to anything.”

Mr. Sistrunk?” “Well, not at this time, Your Honor.” Sistrunk turned and looked smugly

again, though he was still shaken by the brazenness of Sistrunk

Lettie was immediately engulfed by her attorneys, who whisked