Sycamore Row

20

Ancil Hubbard was no longer Ancil Hubbard. The old name and self had been discarded in a hurry years earlier when a pregnant woman found him and made allegations and demands. She wasn’t the first to cause him trouble, or a name change. There was an abandoned wife in Thailand, some jealous husbands here and there, the IRS, some type of police in at least three countries, and a cranky drug dealer in Costa Rica. And these were just the most memorable highlights of a chaotic and sloppily lived life, one he would have happily traded long ago for something more traditional. But traditional was not in the cards for Ancil Hubbard.

He was working in a bar in Juneau, Alaska, in a seedy section of town where sailors and deckhands and roustabouts gathered to drink and shoot dice and blow off steam. A couple of ferocious bouncers kept the peace, but it was always fragile. He went by Lonny, a name he’d noticed in an obituary in a newspaper in Tacoma two years earlier. Lonny Clark. Lonny knew how to game the system, and if Lonny had so chosen he could have obtained a Social Security number, a driver’s license in any state he wanted, even a passport. But Lonny was playing it safe, and there were no records of his existence in any government file or computer. He did not exist, though he had some fake papers in the event he got cornered. He worked in bars because he was paid in cash. He rented a room in a flophouse down the street and paid cash. He rode bikes and buses, and if he needed to vanish, which was always a possibility, he would pay cash for a Greyhound ticket and flash a fake driver’s license. Or hitchhike, something he’d done for a million miles.

He worked behind the bar and studied every person who came and went. Thirty years on the run and you learn how to watch, to look, to catch the prolonged glance, to spot someone who doesn’t fit. Because his misdeeds involved no bodily harm to others, nor did they, regretfully, involve huge sums of money, there was a good chance he wasn’t being chased at all. Lonny was a small-time operator whose principal weakness was an attraction to flawed women. No real crime there. There were some crimes-petty drug dealing, pettier gunrunning-but, hell, a man’s gotta make a living somehow. Perhaps a couple of his crimes were more serious. Nonetheless, after a lifetime of drifting, he had become accustomed to looking over his shoulder.

The crimes were now behind him, as were the women, for the most part. At sixty-six, Lonny was accepting the fact that a fading libido might just be a good thing after all. It kept him out of trouble, kept him focused on other things. He dreamed of buying a fishing boat, though it would be impossible to save enough from his meager earnings. Because of his nature and habits, he often thought of pulling one last drug deal, one grand slam that would net him a bundle and set him free. Prison, though, terrified him. At his age, and caught with the quantity he was dreaming about, he would die behind bars. And, he hated to admit, his previous drug deals had not gone well.

No thanks. He was happy tending bar, chatting up sailors and hookers and dispensing well-earned advice. He closed the bar each morning at 2:00 and walked, half-sober, to his cramped room where he lay on a dirty bed and recalled with great nostalgia his days on the open seas, first in the Navy and later on cruise ships, yachts, even tankers. When you have no future, you live in the past, and Lonny would be stuck there forever.

He never thought about Mississippi, or his childhood there. As soon as he left, he somehow trained his mind to instantly negate any thoughts of the place. Like the click of a camera, he changed scenery and images effortlessly, and after decades he had convinced himself that he had never lived there at all. His life began when he was sixteen; nothing happened before then.

Nothing at all.

Early on his second morning of captivity, and not long after a breakfast of cold scrambled eggs and even colder white toast, Booker Sistrunk was fetched from his cell and led, without restraints, over to the office of the high sheriff. He went inside while a deputy waited at the door. Ozzie greeted him warmly and asked if he would like fresh coffee. Indeed he did. Ozzie also offered fresh doughnuts, and Sistrunk dove right in.

“You can be out in two hours if you want to,” Ozzie said. Sistrunk listened. “All’s you gotta do is walk into court and apologize to Judge Atlee. You’ll be in Memphis long before lunch.”

“I kinda like it here,” Sistrunk said with a mouth full.

“No, Booker, what you like is this.” Ozzie slid across the Memphis paper. Front page, Metro, beneath the fold, a stock photo under a headline that read, SISTRUNK DENIED FEDERAL HABEAS RELIEF; REMAINS BEHIND BARS IN CLANTON. He read it slowly as he chomped on another doughnut. Ozzie noticed a slight grin.

“Another day, another headline, huh Booker? Is that all you’re after here?”

“I’m fighting for my client, Sheriff. Good versus evil. I’m surprised you can’t see that.”

“I see everything, Booker, and this is what’s obvious. You’re not gonna handle this case in front of Judge Atlee. Period. You’ve ripped it with him and he’s tired of you and your foolishness. Your name’s on his shit list and it’s not comin’ off.”

“No problem, Sheriff. I’m taking it to federal court.”

“Sure, you can file some bullshit civil rights crap in federal court, but it won’t stick. I’ve talked to some lawyers, some guys who do federal work, and they say you’re full of shit. Look, Booker, you can’t bully these judges down here the way you can in Memphis. We got three federal judges here in the Northern District. One’s a former Chancellor, like Atlee. One’s an ex-district attorney, and one used to be a federal prosecutor. All white. All fairly conservative. And you think you can walk into federal court down here and start slingin’ all your racist shit, and somebody’s gonna buy it. You’re a fool.”

“And you’re not a lawyer, Mr. Sheriff. But thanks for the legal advice anyway. It’ll be forgotten by the time I get back to my cell.”

Ozzie rocked back and flung his feet upon his desk, his cowboy boots impressive with a new shine. He gazed at the ceiling, frustrated, and said, “You’re makin’ it easy for the white folks to hate Lettie Lang, you know that, Booker?”

“She’s black. They hated her long before I came to town.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. I’ve been elected twice by the white folks in this county. Most of them are good people. They’ll give Lettie a fair shake, or at least they would have until you showed up. Now it’s black versus white and we don’t have the votes. You’re an idiot, you know that, Booker? I don’t know what kinda law you do up in Memphis, but it ain’t workin’ down here.”

“Thanks for the coffee and doughnuts. Can I go now?”

“Please go.”

Sistrunk stood and walked to the door, where he stopped and said, “By the way, I’m not sure your jail complies with federal law.”

“Sue me.”

“A lot of violations.”

“It might get worse.”

Portia was back before noon. She waited and chatted with Roxy while Jake finished a long phone call, then she went up the stairs. Her eyes were red, her hands shook, and she looked like she hadn’t slept in a week. They managed some small talk about the dinner the night before. Finally, Jake asked, bluntly, “What’s going on?”

She closed her eyes, rubbed her forehead and began talking. “We were up all night, one big nasty fight. Simeon was drinking, not bad, but enough to get himself riled up. Momma and I said that Sistrunk had to go. He, of course, didn’t like that, and so we fought. A houseful of people, and we’re fighting like a bunch of idiots. He finally left and we haven’t seen him since. That’s the bad news. The good news is that my mother will sign whatever it takes to get rid of the Memphis lawyers.”

Jake walked to his desk, picked up a sheet of paper, and handed it to her. “It just says that she fires him. That’s all. If she signs it, then we’re in business.”

“What about Simeon?”

“He can hire all the lawyers he wants, but he’s not named in the will; therefore, he’s not an interested party. Judge Atlee will not recognize him, nor his lawyers. Simeon’s game is over. This is between Lettie and the Hubbard family. Will she sign it?”

Portia stood and said, “I’ll be right back.”

“Where is she?”

“Outside in the car.”

“Please ask her to come in.”

“She doesn’t want to. She’s afraid you’re upset with her.”

Jake couldn’t believe it. “Come on, Portia. I’ll make some coffee and we’ll have a chat. Go get your mother.”

Sistrunk was reading and resting comfortably on his lower bunk, a stack of motions and briefs balanced on his stomach, his cellie sitting nearby with his nose stuck in a paperback. Metal clanged, the door unlatched, Ozzie appeared from nowhere and said, “Let’s go Booker.” He handed him his suit, shirt, and tie, all on one hanger. His shoes and socks were in a paper grocery bag.

They sneaked out a rear door where Ozzie’s car was parked. A minute later they stopped behind the courthouse and hustled inside. The halls were empty and no one suspected anything. On the third floor they entered Judge Atlee’s cramped outer room. His court reporter doubled as his secretary. She pointed to another door and said, “They’re waiting.”

“What’s going on?” Sistrunk mumbled for at least the fourth time. Ozzie did not reply. He pushed open the door. Judge Atlee sat at the end of a long table, in his standard black suit, minus the robe. To his right sat Jake, Lettie, and Portia. He motioned to his left and said, “Gentlemen, please have a seat.” They did, with Ozzie sitting as far away from the action as possible.

Sistrunk glared across the table at Jake and Lettie. It was difficult for him to hold his tongue, but he managed to do so. His habit was to shoot first and ask questions later, but common sense told him to take it easy, hold his fire, and try not to anger the judge. Portia, in particular, seemed ready to pounce on him. Lettie studied her hands while Jake scratched on a legal pad.

“Please review this,” Judge Atlee said to Sistrunk as he slid over a single sheet of paper. “You’ve been fired.”

Sistrunk read the one short paragraph, then looked at Lettie and said, “Did you sign this?”

“I did.”

“Under duress?”

“Absolutely not,” Portia said boldly. “She has made the decision to terminate your services. It’s right there in black and white. Do you understand?”

“Where’s Simeon?”

“Gone,” Lettie said. “Don’t know when he’ll be back.”

“I still represent him,” Sistrunk said.

“He’s not an interested party,” Judge Atlee said. “Thus, he will not be allowed to take part, nor will you.” He picked up another sheet of paper and passed it over. “This is an order I just signed lifting the contempt citation. Since you are no longer involved in this matter, Mr. Sistrunk, you are free to go.” It was more of a command than an observation.

Sistrunk looked angrily at Lettie and said, “I’m allowed to be paid for my time and expenses, plus there is the matter of the loans. When can I expect the money?”

“In due course,” Jake said.

“I want it now.”

“Well, you’re not getting it now.”

“Then I’ll sue.”

“Fine. I’ll defend.”

“And I’ll preside,” Judge Atlee said. “I’ll give you a trial date in about four years.”

Portia could not suppress a chuckle. Ozzie said, “Judge, are we finished? If so, I need to drive Mr. Sistrunk back to Memphis. Seems he’s stranded down here. Plus, he and I have a few things to discuss.”

“You’ll hear from me again. This is not the last word,” Sistrunk growled at Lettie.

“I’m sure of that,” Jake said.

“Take him away,” Judge Atlee said. “Preferably to the state line.”

The meeting was adjourned.