Sycamore Row

11

A nosy paralegal sniffing through old land records down the hall heard the gossip as it drifted over from a watercooler, and went to make copies of the latest will to be filed for probate in Ford County. Back at the office, he showed it to his bosses, made even more copies, and began faxing here and there. His bosses faxed it too, and by noon Wednesday copies of Seth’s two-page will were popping up all over the county. The “perish in pain” wish was a favorite touch, but speculation about the deceased’s net worth soon dominated the discussion.

As soon as Herschel left his father’s home, he called his lawyer in Memphis to pass along the wonderful news that he would soon be inheriting “several” million dollars. Of particular concern was his ex-wife-he was still bleeding from the divorce-and he was curious if she could make a claim. No she could not, his lawyer assured him. The lawyer called a lawyer friend down in Tupelo for no reason other than to spread rumors, and in doing so managed to include the bit about Seth Hubbard having a net worth “in excess of $20 million.” The lawyer in Tupelo called some friends. The size of the estate began to grow.

As soon as Ian Dafoe got on the Natchez Trace Parkway and headed south, he set his cruise control on fifty and settled in for the pleasant drive. Traffic was light; the sun was up; the leaves were beginning to change and some were dropping in the breeze. Though his wife, as always, was complicating his life, he had reason to smile. He had managed to defuse the divorce talk, at least for the moment. She was hungover and she had just buried her father and her nerves were shot anyway, and even on a good day Ramona dealt poorly with adversity. He could pacify her, bring her around, kiss her ass enough to gloss over their problems, and set about the task of managing their new wealth. Together. He was certain he could handle this.

She was lying across the rear seat, on her back with a forearm over her eyes, trying to sleep it off. She had stopped talking and her breathing was heavy. He turned around often to make sure she was out of it, then he carefully reached for his new car phone and called the office. Speaking as softly as possible, he offered only the minimum to Rodney, his partner: “The old boy’s gone … estate’s somewhere north of twenty mill … furniture and lumber … pretty amazing … had no idea … just saw the will … 40 percent, after taxes … not bad … about a year … not kidding … more later.”

Ian drove on, smiling at the foliage and dreaming of a better life. Even if they got a divorce, he’d still get a piece of her inheritance, right? He thought about calling his lawyer, but wisely decided to wait. The phone rang suddenly, startling him and waking up Ramona. “Hello,” he said.

On the other end, a stiff male voice said, “Yes, hello, Ian, Stillman Rush here, 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 has already been presented. Seems as though a lawyer in Clanton hustled over to the courthouse late yesterday afternoon and filed a handwritten will that Mr. Hubbard purportedly wrote last Saturday, the day before he died. Handwritten wills are still valid, if they meet certain criteria. This will is just awful. It leaves nothing to the family-Ramona and Herschel are specifically cut out-and instead gives 90 percent of the estate to Lettie Lang, the housekeeper.”

“Lettie!” Ian managed to gasp as he veered across the center line. He caught himself and yanked the wheel.

“What is it?” Ramona snarled from the backseat.

“Yes, Lettie Lang,” Stillman repeated. “I guess he was quite fond of her.”

“This is ridiculous!” Ian said sharply, his voice already several octaves higher, his eyes glaring wildly into the rearview mirror. “Ninety percent? Did you say 90 percent?”

“I did, yes. I have a copy of the will and it clearly says 90 percent.”

“Handwritten? Is it a forgery?”

“We don’t know at this point. Everything is preliminary.”

“Well, obviously, Stillman, this can’t stand up, can it?”

“Of course not. We met with the attorney who probated the will, and he’s not going to withdraw it. So we’ve agreed to meet with the judge soon and work things out.”

“Work things out? What does that mean?”

“Well, we’ll ask the judge to toss out this handwritten will and probate the legitimate one we looked at this morning. If for some reason he says no, then we’ll go to court and fight over which will should stand.”

“When do we go to court?” Ian asked belligerently, but there was also a noticeable layer of desperation in his voice, as if he could feel the fortune beginning to slide.

“We’re not sure right now, but I’ll call in a few days. We’ll work this out, Ian.”

“Damned right you will or I’ll bring in the Lanier firm from Jackson, the big boys, been representing me for a long time. Those guys know how to litigate. In fact, I’ll probably call Wade Lanier as soon as we hang up.”

“No need for that, Ian, not yet anyway. The last thing we need at this point is more lawyers. I’ll call you in a couple of days.”

“You do that.” Ian slammed the phone down and glared at his wife, who said, “What’s going on, Ian?”

Ian took a deep breath, exhaled, and said, “You’re not going to believe it.”

Herschel was sitting behind the wheel of his small Datsun listening to the end of a Springsteen song when the call came. The Datsun was parked near the main entrance of the BMW dealer in East 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 to ease her apprehension. She explained that Simeon had already left again. She had told him nothing about Seth’s will, and this angered him. They had fought briefly, with every word echoing around the crowded house, and so he left.

Jake handed her a copy of Seth’s will. She read it and began crying. He placed a box of tissues next to her chair. She read it again, and when she finished she laid it on the coffee table before her and sat for a long time with her face in her hands. When the tears stopped, she wiped her cheeks and sat straighter, as if the shock was gone and she was ready for business.

“Why would he do this, Lettie?” Jake asked firmly.

“I don’t know, I swear I don’t know,” she said, her voice low and hoarse.

“Did he discuss this will with you?”

“No.”

“Have you seen this before?”

She was shaking her head. “No, no.”

“Has he ever mentioned his will to you?”

A pause as she tried to unscramble her thoughts. “Twice, maybe, in the past few months, he said he would leave a little something behind for me, but he never said what. Of course I was hoping he would, but I never brought it up. I never had no will. My momma never had one. Not something we think about, you know, Mr. Brigance?”

“Please call me Jake.”

“I’ll try.”

“Did you call him Mr. 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. Seth or Mr. Hubbard.”

“What did he call you?”

“Lettie. Always.”

He quizzed her about Seth’s last days, his illness, treatments, doctors, nurses, appetite, daily rituals, and her employment. She knew almost nothing about his business and said that he kept his papers locked up tight around the house; most had been moved to his office over the past few months. He never discussed business with her, or in her presence. Before he got sick, and afterward when he felt well, he traveled a lot and preferred to be out of town. His home was quiet, lonely, and not a happy place. Often she would arrive at 8:00 a.m. with nothing to do for the next eight hours, especially if Seth were out of town. When he was there, she cooked and cleaned. When he was sick, and dying, she stayed by his side. She fed him, and, yes, she bathed him and cleaned up after him when necessary. There had been dark periods, especially during the chemo and radiation, when he was bedridden and too weak to feed himself.

Jake delicately explained the concept of undue influence. The legal assault on the handwritten will would be an assault on Lettie, with allegations that she was too close to Seth, had too much influence; that she manipulated him into including her. For Lettie to prevail, it would be important for her to prove otherwise. As they talked, and as she began to relax, Jake could envision her deposition in the near future, in a room full of hyped-up lawyers all clamoring for the floor and the chance to grill her about what she and Mr. Hubbard did and did not do. He already felt sorry for her.

When she was composed and under control, he said, “I need to explain the relationships here, Lettie. I am not your lawyer. I am the lawyer for Mr. Hubbard’s estate, and in that capacity it’s my job to advocate in favor of this will and to follow its terms. I have to work with the executor, and we’re assuming it will be Mr. Amburgh, to do certain things the law requires, such as notifying potential creditors, protecting assets, preparing an inventory of everything he owned, and so forth. If the will is contested, and I’m sure it will be, then it’s my job to go into court and fight to uphold this will. I’m not your lawyer because you are a beneficiary of the will-the same as his brother, Ancil Hubbard, and the same as his church. However, you and I are on the same side here because we both want this will to prevail. Does this make any sense?”

“I suppose. Do I need a lawyer?”

“Not really, not at this point. Don’t hire a lawyer until you need one.” The vultures would soon be circling and the courtroom would get crowded. Drop $20 million on the table and get out of the way.

“Will you tell me if I need one?” she asked innocently.

“Yes, I will,” Jake said, though he had no idea how he would give such advice. He poured more coffee and noticed she had not touched hers. He glanced at his watch. They had been together for thirty minutes and she had yet to ask about the size of the estate. A white person wouldn’t have made it five minutes without such an inquiry. At times she seemed to absorb each word, and at times she seemed to deflect them, as if overwhelmed.

She cried again and wiped her cheeks.

“Are you curious about how much?” Jake asked.

“I figured you’d tell me sooner or later.”

“I’ve seen nothing in the way of financial statements. I’ve not been inside his office, though that should happen soon. But, according to Mr. Amburgh, Seth Hubbard recently sold his company and cleared about $20 million. Mr. Amburgh thinks this is probably sitting in a bank somewhere. Cash. Plus there are a few other assets, maybe some real estate here and there. One of my jobs is to locate everything and inventory it for the court, and for the beneficiaries.”

“And I’m one of those-a beneficiary?”

“Oh yes, very much so. Ninety percent.”

“Ninety percent of twenty million?”

“Yes, give or take.”

“Oh my God, Jake.” She reached for the tissues and collapsed again.

Over the next hour, they managed some progress. Between her emotional meltdowns, Jake laid out the basics of estate administration-time, the people involved, court appearances, taxes, and lastly, the transfer of assets. The more he talked, though, the more confused she became, and he suspected that much of what he was saying would be repeated soon. He dumbed down the issues involved in a will contest and made cautious predictions as to what might happen. Knowing Judge Atlee and his distaste of lingering cases and slow lawyers, Jake believed a trial, assuming there was one, would take place within the next twelve months, probably sooner. With so much at stake, the losing party would certainly appeal, so tack on two more years before a final outcome. As Lettie began to grasp the ordeal and how long it might take, her resolve stiffened and she gathered her emotions.

Twice she asked if there was any way to keep it all quiet. No, Jake explained patiently, that would not be possible. She feared Simeon and his family of outlaws and wondered if she should move away. Jake had no advice on that matter, but he had already envisioned the coming chaos in her life as kinfolks materialized and new friends came out of the woods.

After two hours, she reluctantly left. Jake escorted her to the front door 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 by the will, then overwhelmed by the law, and at that moment Jake was the only person she trusted. Her eyes were wet again when she finally stepped out.

“Are those tears of joy or is she scared to death?” Roxy asked after Jake closed the door.

“Both, I would say.”

She waved a pink phone message slip and said, “Doofus Lee called. He’s hot 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 and harmless and had never risen to the level of outright defamation. He butchered dates and names and places but had never seriously embarrassed anyone. He had an ear for the street, an uncanny nose for picking up a story immediately after it happened, or while it was unfolding, and though he was too lazy for prolonged digging he could be counted on to stir things up. He preferred to cover the courthouse, primarily because it was across the street from the newspaper’s offices and many of its records were public.

He strode into the law offices of Jake Brigance late Wednesday afternoon, took a chair near Roxy’s desk, and demanded to see the lawyer. “I know he’s here,” he said with a killer smile that Roxy ignored. He liked the ladies and labored under the permanent illusion that every woman was eyeing him.

“He’s busy,” she said.

“So am I.” He opened a magazine and began whistling softly. Ten minutes later, Roxy said, “He’ll see you now.”

Jake and Dumas had known each other for years and never had a problem. Jake was one of the few lawyers around the square who had never threatened to sue him, and Dumas appreciated it.

“Tell me about Seth Hubbard,” he said, pulling out his notepad and uncapping his pen.

“I assume you’ve seen the will,” Jake replied.

“Got a copy. They’re everywhere. How much is he worth?”

“Nothing. He’s dead.”

“Ha-ha. His estate then.”

“I can’t say anything, Dumas, at this time. I don’t know much and I can’t say anything.”

“Okay, let’s go off the record.” With Dumas, nothing was off the record, and every lawyer, judge, and clerk knew it.

“I’m not off the record. I’m not on the record. I’m not talking, Dumas. It’s that simple. Maybe later.”

“When are you going to court?”

“The funeral was yesterday, okay? There’s no rush.”

“Oh really? No rush? Why did you file your petition twenty minutes after the funeral was over?”

Jake paused, nailed, busted, great question. “Okay, maybe I had a reason to rush my petition.”

“The old race to the courthouse, huh?” Dumas said with a goofy smirk as he scribbled something on his pad.

“No comment.”

“I can’t find Lettie Lang. Any idea where she is?”

“No comment. And she will not talk to you, or any other reporter.”

“We’ll see. I tracked down a guy in Atlanta, writes for a business magazine, said an LBO group bought a holding company owned by Mr. Seth Hubbard for fifty-five million. Happened late last year. Ring a bell?”

“No comment, Dumas,” Jake said, impressed that the notoriously lazy reporter had been working the phones.

“I’m not much when it comes to business, but you gotta figure the old guy had some debts, you know? No comment, right?” Jake nodded, yes, no comment. “But I can’t locate his banks. The more I dig, the less I learn about your client.”

“Never met the man,” Jake said, then wished he hadn’t. Dumas wrote it down.

“Do you know if he had any debts? Mr. Amburgh clammed up, then he hung up.”

“No comment.”

“So if I say that Mr. Hubbard sold out for fifty-five million and don’t mention any debts because I have no sources, then my readers will get the impression that his estate is worth a lot more than it really is, right?”

Jake nodded. Dumas watched him, waited, then scribbled. Shifting gears, he asked, “So the great question, Jake, is, Why would a man who’s worth millions change his will the day before his suicide, screwing his family with the update and leaving everything to his housekeeper?”

You got it, Dumas. That is the great question. Jake kept nodding but said nothing.

“And perhaps number two might be, What did Seth and his little brother witness that left such an impression that Seth mentions it decades later? Right?”

Jake replied, “That’s indeed a great question, but I’m not sure it’s number 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 this?”

“I have no idea. Haven’t really thought about it yet.”

“When’s the first court date?”

“It has not been set.”

“Will you get your girl to contact me when a date has been set?”

“Yes, unless it’s a closed hearing.”

“Fair enough.”

Jake’s last visitor of the afternoon was his landlord. Lucien was in the conference room on the first floor where the law books were kept. He’d covered the table with them, obviously lost somewhere deep in his own world. When Jake walked in, said hello, and saw a dozen books opened, he took a deep breath as a sense of dread hit him in the gut. He could not remember the last time Lucien dug through law books. The disbarment had happened not long after Jake hired on, and Lucien had kept his distance from the office and from the law. Now, he was back.

“Some light reading?” Jake asked as he fell into a leather chair.

“Just brushing up on probate law. Never did much of it. Pretty dull stuff, unless of course you get a case like this. I can’t decide if you want a jury or not.”

“I’m leaning toward a jury, but everything is premature.”

“Of course.” Lucien closed a book and slid it away. “You said you were meeting with Lettie Lang this afternoon. How did it go?”

“Fine, Lucien, and you know as well as I do that I cannot talk about our confidential discussions.”

“Oh sure. Do you like her?”

Jake paused a second and reminded himself to be patient. “Yes, she’s a nice person who’s easily overwhelmed. This is overwhelming, to say the least.”

“But will a jury like her?”

“You mean white jurors?”

“I don’t know. I understand black people far better than most whites. I’m not a racist, Jake. I’m one of at least a dozen whites in this county not blinded by racism. I was the first, and only, white member of the NAACP here. At one time, almost all of my clients were black. I know black people, Jake, and having blacks on this jury could cause trouble.”

“Lucien, the funeral was yesterday. Isn’t this a bit premature?”

“Maybe, but these conversations will take place eventually. You’re lucky to have someone like me on your side, Jake. Humor me. Talk to me. A lot of blacks will be jealous of Lettie Lang because now she’s one of them, but if she gets the money she’ll be the richest person in Ford County. There are no rich black people around here. It’s unheard-of. She won’t be black anymore. She’ll be uppity and rich and she’ll look down on everybody, especially her people. Do you follow me, Jake?”

“To some degree, yes, but I’d still rather have blacks on the jury. They’ll be more sympathetic than a bunch of rednecks who can barely pay their mortgages.”

“No rednecks either.”

Jake laughed and asked, “Well, if you eliminate the blacks and the rednecks, who, exactly, will you seat on your perfect jury?”

“I’m still working on that. I like this case, Jake. I’ve thought about nothing else since lunch. It has reminded me of why I once loved the law.” He leaned forward on his elbows and looked at Jake as if he might get choked up. “I want to be in that courtroom, Jake.”

“You’re getting ahead of yourself, Lucien. A trial, if it happens, is months away.”

“Sure, I know that. But you’ll need some help and lots of it. I’m bored, Jake, tired of sitting on the porch and drinking, and I’ve got to cut back on the booze. I’m worried about it, Jake, I’ll be honest with you.”

And with good reason.

“I’d like to hang out around here. I’ll stay out of the way. I know most people avoid me, and I understand why. Hell, I’d avoid me if I could. It’ll give me something to do, keep me away from the bottle, at least during the day, and I know so much more about the law than you do anyway. And, I want to be in that courtroom.”

This, for the second time, and Jake knew it would not go away. The courtroom was a large, stately room with different sections and lots of seating. Did he want to sit with the spectators and watch the show? Or was he thinking of a seat at the table with the other lawyers, because if he was then Jake’s life was about to become messy. If Lucien wanted to be a lawyer again, he would be required to suffer through the ordeal of the bar exam. If successful, he would have a license to practice, which, of course, would usher him back into Jake’s professional life.

The image of Lucien sitting at counsel table, not fifteen feet from the jury box, was frightening. To most whites, he was a toxic legend, a crazy old drunk who had embarrassed a once proud family and now shacked up with his housekeeper.

“We’ll see,” Jake said cautiously.