Sycamore Row

28

On Monday, February 20, Judge Atlee assembled the players for a progress report. Since it was not an official hearing of any variety, he locked the courtroom to keep reporters and spectators away. Most of the litigants were present: the Hubbards on one side, Lettie and Phedra on the other. Still no sign of Ancil, though Judge Atlee was not quite ready to declare him dead.

He assumed the bench, in his robe, managed a gruff “Good morning,” and called the roll of lawyers. All present. It was soon obvious the judge was not in a good mood and probably felt bad. In a tired voice he said, “Gentlemen, this matter is scheduled for a jury trial six weeks from today. I am monitoring discovery and I see no reason why we can’t be ready to go on as planned on April 3. Am I missing something here? Any reason to delay the trial?”

Serious head shaking followed. No sir. No reason at all. As Jake had said, it was indeed a strange case in that every lawyer was eager for a trial. If anyone wanted to stall, it might be Jake. He had every reason to drag things along, at $150 an hour, but he had Judge Atlee breathing down his neck too. The case officially known as In re Estate of Henry Seth Hubbard was barreling down the docket at record speed.

The judge continued: “Now, Mr. Brigance has copies of the First Inventory for your perusal. As I have instructed in writing, this is to be kept as confidential as possible.” Portia began handing over copies to the other side. “I have sealed this section of the court file because nothing good can come from the dissemination of this sensitive material. You, as the attorneys, and your clients have the right to know what’s in the estate, so take a look.” The lawyers snatched the copies of the inventory and flipped through the pages. Some had heard the alleged value, but they still wanted to see it in black and white. Twenty-four million and change. It validated what they were doing, why they were fighting.

The courtroom was deathly silent for a few moments as it sank in. More money than any of them could ever hope to earn in a long career. Then there were some whispers, and a chuckle over a wisecrack.

Judge Atlee said, “I address the contestants now. In reviewing the discovery, it seems as though you may have plans to challenge the validity of the handwriting. You have listed two experts in this field, and I assume the proponents will need to employ their own. I’ve looked at the handwriting samples, specifically the will, the burial instructions, the letter Mr. Hubbard left behind on his kitchen table, and the letter he addressed to Mr. Brigance, dated October 1. I have also seen the other samples of his handwriting that have been filed. Now, Mr. Lanier and Mr. Rush, do you plan to seriously contend that this will was written by someone other than Seth Hubbard?” His tone left little doubt about how he felt.

Rush and Lanier stood slowly, neither eager to respond. Lanier said, “Your Honor, we’re still debating that point.”

“Well hurry up,” Judge Atlee said rudely. “It’s a waste and you’re wasting my time. A blind man can see it’s his handwriting. Any expert who saunters into this courtroom and says otherwise will be laughed at by the jury and scorned by the court.”

And with that, the handwriting issue was settled. They sat down. Lanier whispered to his sidekick, Lester Chilcott, “What else has he already decided?”

Judge Atlee looked at Jake and growled, “Mr. Brigance, any progress in the search for Ancil Hubbard? Five percent of this inventory is a lot of money.”

Well, no shit, Judge, Jake wanted to say as he was jolted out of another thought and stood properly, though rattled. “Not really, Your Honor. The search has turned up very little. It appears as though Ancil began using different names a long time ago. We’ve found no proof that he’s dead, and certainly nothing to prove he’s alive.”

“Very well. Next on my list is a discussion about the jury pool. It’s been over eight years since I presided over a trial involving a jury, and I admit to being a bit rusty. I’ve spoken to Judge Noose, Judge Handleford, and others, so I’m getting good advice. They seem to think a pool of one hundred will be sufficient. Gentlemen?”

Nothing.

“Good. I’ll instruct the clerk to pull that many names at random from the voter registration rolls, and I’ll make the list available two weeks before trial, the same procedure as in Circuit Court. There will be the standard precautions and warnings against unauthorized contact with the potential jurors. This is a high-profile case, gentlemen, and at times I’m almost convinced every person in this county already has an opinion.”

Jake stood and said, “In that case, Your Honor, perhaps we should consider a change of venue.”

“Requesting one is up to you, Mr. Brigance. I’ve seen nothing in writing.”

“I haven’t done so. I’m just speculating here. If most of our prospective jurors know about the case, then it seems like moving the case might be the proper thing to do.”

“Mr. Lanier,” Judge Atlee said, looking at the other lawyers. “Mr. Rush. Mr. Zeitler. Anybody?”

Wade Lanier straightened himself up with great frustration. “There’s never been a change of venue in a will contest in Mississippi. Not a single case. We’ve done the research.” Lester Chilcott was suddenly clawing his way through a thick briefcase. “And it seems a bit broad to declare that everyone in this county has formed an opinion before we’ve presented the evidence.” Chilcott handed him a thick brief. “Here it is, if the court would like to take a look. Not a single case.”

Jake was impressed with the research; Judge Atlee less so. He said, “I’ll take your word for it, for now. I’ll review the research later.”

Jake wasn’t serious about moving the case because he wanted it to stay in his courtroom, but there were advantages to having the trial in another county. These included (1) the possibility of more black jurors; (2) avoiding the lingering damage caused by Booker Sistrunk, his mouth, his race-baiting, and his black Rolls-Royce; (3) finding jurors who hadn’t gossiped about Lettie and her family, their problems, and their new rental home outside Lowtown; and (4) selecting a jury untainted with endless speculation about Lettie and Seth Hubbard and what they were really up to. These factors and issues had been debated by Jake, Lucien, and, increasingly, Portia, as the weeks passed. They could debate all they wanted, but it was a waste of time. Judge Atlee was not moving the case, and he had said as much to Jake. So Jake was bluffing, and enjoying the sight of his opponents scrambling in opposition. He said, “Judge, if you think every person in Ford County has an opinion, then I’ll file a motion to change venue.”

Judge Atlee said, “I have a better idea, Mr. Brigance. Let’s summon our pool and start the selection process. We should know immediately if we’re wasting our time here. If it looks as though we can’t pick an impartial jury, then we’ll just move the trial somewhere else. There are lots of courtrooms in this state, at least one in every county.”

Jake sat down, as did Lanier and Stillman Rush. Judge Atlee rustled some papers, then launched into a discussion about the remaining depositions. With the lawyers in a remarkably agreeable mood, scheduling posed few problems. A pretrial conference was set for March 20, two weeks before the trial.

The meeting was adjourned.

The meeting reconvened fifteen minutes later in Judge Atlee’s office down the hall. Lawyers only, no clients, paralegals, clerks, or anyone else who couldn’t be trusted. Just the lawyers and the judge, who’d taken off his robe and was puffing away on his pipe.

When they were seated, he said, “Gentlemen, for the next few minutes or so, we will at least have a discussion about settling this matter. I have no reservations about going forward with the trial; indeed, in many ways, I’m looking forward to it. Jury trials are rare for me, and seldom am I dealt facts as intriguing as those presented here. Nonetheless, I would be remiss in my role as the impartial referee not to explore ways to arrive at an outcome that will give all sides something, though less than what they would like. There’s a lot of money on the line here, gentlemen, surely there’s a way to slice the pie and make everyone happy.” A heavy pause as he sucked hard on the pipe stem. “May I make the first proposal?”

As if he needed approval. All lawyers nodded yes, though cautiously.

“Very well. Take the two smaller bequests of 5 percent each: pay the church in full; put Ancil’s in a trust until we figure what to do at a later date. Take the remaining 90 percent and split it three ways: one-third to Lettie Lang; one-third to Herschel Hubbard; one-third to Ramona Hubbard Dafoe. If we assume a tax bite of 50 percent, then each of the three will walk away with something in the neighborhood of three point six million. Far less than what each wants, but far more than each will get if the other side wins. What do you think?”

“I’m sure the church will take it,” Jake said.

“It kinda leaves us high and dry, Your Honor,” said Zack Zeitler, the attorney for Herschel’s children.

“Same here,” said Joe Bradley Hunt, the attorney for Ramona’s kids.

“Of course,” Judge Atlee said. “But it’s safe to assume the children will get no small benefit from such a settlement. Their parents get a windfall; surely it will trickle down. Perhaps, you could stipulate that a portion be held in trust for the kids. Just an idea.”

“Perhaps,” Zeitler said, cutting his eyes around at the other attorneys as if his throat was in danger.

“Interesting,” Wade Lanier mumbled. “I think my folks would consider it.”

“Same here,” said Stillman Rush.

His Honor chewed on his battered pipe stem and looked at Jake, who at the moment was stewing because of the ambush. He had not been forewarned of this impromptu settlement conference, and he certainly had no clue that his old pal was planning to throw some numbers on the table. Judge Atlee said, “Jake?”

Jake said, “You all have copies of the letter Seth Hubbard wrote to me when he mailed along his last will and testament. His instructions to me are rather explicit. His wishes and desires regarding his two adult children could not be clearer. I suggest you all read the letter again, and the will. I represent the estate, and I have my marching orders. My job is to uphold Mr. Hubbard’s will and see to it that his children get nothing. I have no choice. I will not be a part of any compromise or settlement.”

“Should you discuss this with your client?” Stillman said.

“My client is the estate, which is represented by Mr. Quince Lundy, the administrator.”

“I’m talking about Lettie Lang.”

“And I don’t represent Lettie Lang. We have the same interests-the validation of the handwritten will-but I’m not her lawyer. I’ve made that clear to everyone, especially to her. As an interested party she has the right to hire a lawyer, which she tried once but he wound up in jail.”

“I kinda miss ol’ Booker,” Wade Lanier said, and again got a few laughs.

Jake pressed on. “My point is that I’m not her lawyer.”

Stillman said, “Sure, Jake, technically, but right now you have more influence with her than anyone else. Hell, her daughter is your paralegal, or secretary, or whatever.”

“I have quite a staff.”

Wade Lanier said, “You can’t tell us, Jake, that if you went to Lettie and told her she could walk away with over three million bucks in two months, hell, two weeks, she wouldn’t grab the deal and run.”

“I don’t know what she would do. She’s a proud woman who feels scorned by the community. She wants her day in court.”

“Three million bucks might ease some of the scorn,” Lanier said.

“Perhaps, but I will not be a part of a compromise. If the court wishes, I will resign as the attorney for the estate, but as long as I’m here I’m not authorized to settle.”

Judge Atlee relit his pipe with a match and blew some more smoke. He leaned forward on his elbows and said, “Gentlemen, I think he’s right. If this will is proven to be valid, that is, if the jury believes Mr. Hubbard was of sound mind and not unduly influenced, then we have no choice but to follow the terms of the will. It is explicit. The adult children get nothing.”

Maybe, Wade Lanier thought to himself, but you don’t know what I know. You haven’t seen the Irene Pickering will. You don’t know that Ms. Lettie Lang has a history of worming her way into the private matters of her employers. And when the jury hears and sees this, the adult children of Seth Hubbard will do quite well.

Jake’s principled defense of his dead client’s last will, as well as his somewhat cocky belief that the trial should be held in Clanton, in his courtroom, was severely shaken by a tragedy that occurred later that night in an ice storm near the town of Lake Village, in the southern part of Ford County. Two brothers, Kyle and Bo Roston, were driving home after a high school basketball game. Kyle was Clanton High’s senior point guard. Bo was a sophomore substitute. An eyewitness in a car behind them said the driver, Kyle, was proceeding with caution, not in a hurry, and handling the road conditions with skill. Another vehicle topped a hill at a high rate of speed and began sliding. The witness watched in horror as a crash became inevitable. He estimated Kyle was driving about forty miles per hour; the other vehicle, an old pickup, much faster than that. The head-on collision sent the Rostons’ small Toyota flipping through the air and into a ditch. The pickup spun wildly into a field as debris littered the road. The witness was able to stop in time and give assistance.

Kyle died at the scene. Bo was extracted by rescue personnel and taken to the hospital in Clanton where he immediately went into surgery. The trauma to his head was severe and he was barely alive. The other driver was also hospitalized but his injuries were not serious. His blood alcohol content was twice the legal limit. A deputy was parked outside his room.

The other driver was Simeon Lang.

Ozzie called Jake just after midnight and awakened him from a deep sleep. Fifteen minutes later, Ozzie stopped in front of the house and Jake hustled outside and into the sheriff’s car. The ice was worse and the streets were slick, and as they crept through town Ozzie gave an update. The second boy was still in surgery but things looked grim. As far as Ozzie could tell at that point, Simeon had not been drinking in a local honky-tonk. According to Lettie, who was already at the hospital, he had not been home in over a week. She thought he was returning from a long haul, though he was not carrying cash or a paycheck. He had a broken nose but was otherwise unhurt.

“The drunks always walk away from their wrecks,” Ozzie said.

They found Lettie and Portia hiding at the end of a long hallway, not far from Simeon’s room. Both were crying, distraught, almost inconsolable. Jake sat with them while Ozzie left to check on other matters. After a few minutes with little conversation, Lettie walked away to find a restroom. As soon as she was gone, Portia said, “Ten years ago I was fourteen and in the ninth grade, and I begged her to leave him. He was hitting her back then. I saw it. I said, ‘Please Momma, let’s get away from him, go somewhere else.’ I think maybe she tried but she’s always been afraid of him. Now look what he’s done. What’ll happen to him, Jake?” She raked tears off her cheeks with the back of her hand.

Barely above a whisper, Jake said, “Nothing good. Assuming everything is his fault, and that he was drunk, he’s looking at vehicular homicide. One count, as of now.”

“What’s it carry?”

“Five to twenty-five. The judge has a lot of discretion.”

“And he can’t get out of it?”

“No. I see no way.”

“Hallelujah. He’ll finally be gone for a long time.” She cupped both hands over her mouth and nose and sobbed harder. “Those poor boys,” she kept saying.

The crowd continued to grow around the waiting area on the hospital’s main wing. Ozzie spoke to Jeff and Evelyn Roston, the parents, who were too stunned to say much. He talked to one of the boys’ uncles and explained that Simeon Lang was in custody and would be moved to the jail within hours. Yes, he was drunk, still is. I’m very sorry.

“You better get him outta here,” the uncle said, nodding to a group of men nearby. Angry, distraught men, rural types raised around guns and rifles and upset enough to do something drastic. Others joined them. The Rostons grew soybeans and chickens and were active in their country church. They had many relatives and friends, and they had never voted for Ozzie.

Every deputy on the payroll was at the hospital by 2:00 a.m. At three, they sneaked Simeon out of the hospital and took him to jail. Ozzie informed the uncle.

Lettie and Portia used the same side door and left the hospital. Jake accompanied them to their car. He returned to the main wing, avoided the waiting area, and found Ozzie chatting with two of his men. Dumas Lee approached them, camera around his neck, and they immediately went silent.

Dumas said, “Say, Jake, you got a minute?”

Jake hesitated, looked at Ozzie, who said, “No comment whatsoever,” then asked Dumas, “What’s on your mind?”

“Just a couple of questions.”

They walked away, side by side, down a long corridor. Dumas asked, “Can you confirm it’s Simeon Lang?”

It was senseless to deny it, so Jake said, “Yes.”

“And you’re his lawyer?”

“I am not.”

“Okay, but he’s had a drunk driving charge pending in city court for four months. Your name’s on the docket as his lawyer.”

Careful, Jake warned himself. He breathed deeply and felt a thick knot in his stomach. “I did that as a favor,” he said.

“I don’t care why you did it. Your name’s on the docket as his lawyer.”

“I’m not his lawyer, okay? Never have been. I can’t represent the estate of Seth Hubbard and also represent Simeon Lang, the husband of one of the beneficiaries.”

“Then why did you show up in court on October 19 to request a postponement of his drunk driving case?”

“It was a favor. I’m not his lawyer, okay Dumas?”

“Why has the case been postponed for four months?”

“I’m not the judge.”

“I’ll talk to him later,” Dumas fired back.

“You do that. No further comment.” Jake abruptly turned around and walked away. Dumas followed and kept talking, saying, “Look, Jake, you’d better talk to me because this is gonna look bad.”

Jake turned around again and they squared off in the center of the corridor. Jake caught himself, took a deep breath, and said, “Don’t draw any conclusions, Dumas. I haven’t touched the DUI case in four months because I’m not his lawyer. If you will recall, at the time he was represented by those clowns from Memphis. Not by me. So please be careful here.”

Dumas was scribbling furiously. Jake wanted to punch him. Everything was suddenly forgotten by screams from the other end of the building.

Bo Roston was pronounced dead at 4:15 a.m.