Sycamore Row

29

Jake and Carla sat at the kitchen table and waited for the coffee to brew. It was not yet 5:00 a.m. on Wednesday, February 22, a day that would undoubtedly be one of the saddest and darkest in the county’s history. Two teenagers-bright kids, strong students, athletes, church members, popular boys from a good family-slaughtered on an icy road by a drunk. The horrible news was spreading by the minute. The cafés would be packed as the early risers hurried in for the latest word. The churches would open for prayer. Clanton High School would be the worst place to be. Those poor kids.

Carla poured coffee and they spoke softly, in hushed tones so Hanna wouldn’t be awakened. Jake was saying, “I never opened a file. Ozzie called me on Monday, told me Simeon was arrested on Saturday morning and was due in court on Wednesday. When he sobered up, Ozzie drove him home and along the way told him to get rid of the Memphis lawyers. I thanked Ozzie and we agreed to meet later. He called back and asked if I would show up in court Wednesday to get the case continued. Ozzie thought he could use the DUI to pressure Simeon to get in line. I went to court that Wednesday, did the paperwork, asked for a continuance, got one, and forgot about it, for the most part. At the time, Simeon was still represented by Booker Sistrunk, and I told Simeon in court that I would not help him with the DUI. I didn’t like the guy; in fact, I despised him.”

“Did you see a conflict?” Carla asked.

“I thought about it. In fact, I even mentioned it to Ozzie. The truth was, there was no conflict. I’m the attorney for the estate. Simeon is not an interested party in the estate. His wife is, but he’s not.”

“That’s not real clear, Jake.”

“No, it’s not, and I should not have gotten involved. It was a huge mistake. I didn’t trust my instincts.”

“But no one can blame you for Simeon’s drunk driving.”

“Sure they can. If the case had been handled properly, he would have been convicted before now and his license pulled. He would not have been driving last night, in theory anyway. The truth is half the blacks and rednecks in this county do not have valid licenses.”

“It’s only four months, Jake. These cases drag on for longer, don’t they?”

“Sometimes.”

“What was that guy’s name, the roofer? You did a DUI for his son and the case lasted a year.”

“Chuck Bennett, but I didn’t want the boy in jail until they finished with our roof.”

“My point is that these cases can drag on.”

“Sure, but there’s always finger-pointing after a tragedy, the blame game. And since I’m in the Lang camp, I’ll get my share. It’s always easy to blame the lawyers. Ozzie’ll get hammered, too. He’ll be seen as the black sheriff trying to protect one of his own, and now two white kids are dead. It could be brutal.”

“Maybe not, Jake.”

“I’m not optimistic.”

“How will it affect the will contest?”

Jake slowly sipped his coffee and stared through a window into the blackness of his backyard. Softly, he said, “It’s devastating. Simeon Lang will be the most reviled person in this county for months to come. He’ll have his day in court, then get sent away to prison. Over time, he’ll be forgotten by most folks. But our trial is only six weeks away. The Lang name is toxic. Imagine trying to pick a jury with that baggage.” He took another sip, then rubbed his eyes. “Lettie has no choice but to file for divorce, and quickly. She has to cut all ties to Simeon.”

“Will she?”

“Why not? He’ll spend the next twenty or thirty years in Parchman, where he belongs.”

“I’m sure the Rostons will be pleased with that.”

“Those poor people.”

“Are you seeing her today, Lettie?”

“I’m sure I will. I’ll call Harry Rex first thing this morning and try to arrange a meeting. He’ll know what to do.”

“Will this make the Times?”

“No, the Times will be on the street in an hour. I’m sure Dumas will give it the entire front page next week, with photos of the wrecked vehicles, as much gore as possible. And he’d love to grind me up too.”

“What’s the worst he can say about you, Jake?”

“Well, first, he can label me as Simeon’s lawyer. Then he can slant and twist and imply that I’ve somehow stalled the October DUI case, and that if I had not done so, then Simeon’s driver’s license would have been yanked by the court and he wouldn’t be driving. Thus, the Roston boys wouldn’t be dead.”

“He can’t do that. That’s assuming far too much.”

“He can and he will.”

“Then talk to him. Damage control here, Jake. Today is Wednesday, so the funerals will probably be over the weekend. Wait until Monday, and file the divorce. What do you call that restraining thing?”

“TRO-temporary restraining order.”

“That’s it. Get the judge to sign one of those so Simeon can’t get near Lettie. Sure he’s in jail, but if she wants a TRO it makes her look good. A clean break, she’s running from the guy. In the meantime, talk to Dumas and make sure he gets the facts straight. Do some research and show him that some DUI cases drag on for more than four months. You never opened a file and you certainly weren’t paid a dime. See if you can convince Ozzie to take some heat. If I recall correctly, he got about 70 percent of the vote the last time he ran. He’s bulletproof. Plus, he wants Lettie to win the will contest. If you’re getting hit with baggage, get Ozzie to shoulder some. He can handle it.”

Jake was nodding along, even smiling. Go girl!

She said, “Look, dear, right now you’re shell-shocked and you’re scared. Shake it off. You’ve done nothing wrong, so don’t get blamed for anything. Control the damage, then control the spin.”

“Can I hire you? My office needs some help.”

“You can’t afford me. I’m a schoolteacher.”

Hanna was coughing. Carla went to check on her.

The real damage control began about an hour later when Jake stormed into the Coffee Shop, ready to convince one and all that he was not the lawyer for Simeon Lang and never had been. So many rumors began there, over eggs and bacon. In the shower, Jake decided to go straight to the source.

Marshall Prather was there in uniform behind a stack of pancakes, waiting, it seemed. He’d been up all night too and looked as bleary-eyed as Jake. During the lull that was caused by Jake’s entry, Marshall said, “Hey Jake, saw you at the hospital a few hours ago.” This was a deliberate effort to start the spin because Ozzie was also controlling damage.

“Yeah, just awful,” Jake said somberly. At full volume he asked, “Did ya’ll take Lang to jail?”

“Yep. He’s still sobering up.”

“You his lawyer, Jake?” asked Ken Nugent from three tables over. Nugent drove the Pepsi truck and spent his days hauling cases of beverages into country stores. Dell had once said, in his absence, that no one spread more gossip than Nugent.

“Never have been,” Jake said. “I don’t represent him, nor do I represent his wife.”

“What the hell you doin’ in the case then?” Nugent fired back.

Dell poured coffee into Jake’s cup and bumped him with her rear end, part of the routine. “Mornin’ sweetie,” she whispered. Jake smiled at her, then looked back at Nugent. Things went mute as all other conversations stopped. Jake said, “Under the law, I actually represent Mr. Seth Hubbard, who’s no longer with us, of course, but just before he died he selected me as the attorney for his estate. My job is to follow his wishes, present his last will, and protect his estate. My contract of representation is with the administrator of the estate, and no one else. Not Lettie Lang, and certainly not her husband. Frankly, I can’t stand the guy. Don’t forget he hired those Memphis clowns who tried to steal the case.”

Dell, always loyal, piped in, “That’s what I tried to tell ’em.” She placed Jake’s toast and grits in front of him.

“So who’s his lawyer?” Nugent asked, ignoring her.

“I have no idea. Probably one appointed by the court. I doubt if he can afford his own.”

“What will he get, Jake?” asked Roy Kern, a plumber who’d worked on Jake’s previous home.

“A lot. Two counts of vehicular homicide at five to twenty-five a pop. Don’t know how it’ll go down, but Judge Noose is tough in these cases. I wouldn’t be surprised if he got twenty or thirty years.”

“Why not the death penalty?” asked Nugent.

“It’s not a death case because-”

“The hell it ain’t. You got two dead kids.”

“There was no deliberate effort to kill, nothing premeditated. A death penalty case requires murder plus something else: murder plus rape; murder plus robbery; murder plus kidnapping. This could never be a death case.”

This was not well received by the crowd. When stirred up, the gang at the Coffee Shop could resemble the beginnings of a lynch mob, but it always settled down after breakfast. Jake sprinkled Tabasco on his grits and began buttering his toast.

Nugent asked, “Can the Rostons get any of the money?”

The money? As if Seth’s estate were now available and thus vulnerable.

Jake laid down his fork and looked at Nugent. He reminded himself that these were his people, his clients and friends, and they just needed reassuring. They did not understand the ins and outs of the law and of probate, and they were concerned that an injustice might be in the works. “No,” Jake said pleasantly, “there’s no way. It will be months, probably years before Mr. Hubbard’s money is finally disbursed, and as of right now we really don’t know who’ll get it. The trial will help settle things, but its verdict will certainly be appealed. And even if Lettie Lang eventually gets all the money, or 90 percent of it, her husband doesn’t get a dime. He’ll be locked away anyway. The Rostons will not have the right to make a claim against Lettie.”

He took a bite of toast and chewed quickly. He wanted to control the spin and not waste time with his mouth full.

“He won’t get out on bond, will he Jake?” asked Bill West.

“I doubt it. A bond will be set, but it’ll probably be too high. My guess is he’ll stay in jail until he either pleads under an agreement or goes to trial.”

“What kinda defense could he use?”

Jake shook his head as if there could be no defense. “He was drunk and there’s an eyewitness, right Marshall?”

“Yep. Guy saw it all.”

Jake continued, “I see a plea bargain and a long sentence.”

“Ain’t he got a boy in prison?” asked Nugent.

“He does. Marvis.”

“Maybe he can bunk with his boy, join the same gang, have all sorts of fun at Parchman,” Nugent said and got some laughs. Jake laughed too, then attacked his breakfast. He was relieved the conversation had moved away from any connection he might have to Simeon Lang.

They would leave the Coffee Shop and go to their jobs, where all day long they would talk about nothing but the Roston tragedy, and they would have the inside scoop because they’d had breakfast with Jake, the man in the middle. They would assure their co-workers and listeners that their pal Jake was not the lawyer for Simeon Lang, the most hated man in Ford County. They would assuage their fears and promise them that Lang was headed to prison for a long time.

Jake had told them so.

Bright, early morning sunlight streamed through the wooden blinds and fell into neat white rows across the long conference room table. Somewhere in the background, a phone rang constantly, but no one had any interest in answering it. The front door was locked, and every fifteen minutes or so there was a knock. The tense discussions rose, then ebbed and waned and finally ceased, though there was so much more to say.

Harry Rex had walked them through the strategies of a divorce filing. File now, file loudly, file loaded with as many sordid allegations as possible to make Mr. Lang appear to be the creep he really was. Allege adultery, habitual cruel and inhuman treatment, desertion, drunkenness, abuse, nonsupport, throw in everything because the marriage is over whether Lettie would admit it or not. Pound him because he cannot respond from jail, and why would he bother anyway? Do it Monday and make sure Dumas Lee and every other reporter with even a passing interest gets a copy of the filing. Include a request for a restraining order to keep the lout off the property and away from Lettie and the kids and grandkids for the rest of their lives. It’s about ending a bad marriage, but it’s also about posturing for the public. Harry Rex agreed to handle the case.

Portia had told them the first threatening phone call came just after 5:00 a.m. Phedra took it, and after a few seconds calmly hung up. “He called me a ‘nigger,’ ” she said, stunned. “Said we’ll pay for killin’ those boys.” They panicked and locked the doors. Portia found a handgun in a closet and loaded it. They turned off the lights and huddled together in the den, watching the street. Then the phone rang again. And again. They prayed for sunrise. She said her mother would sign the divorce papers, but once she does, look out for the Langs. Simeon’s brothers and cousins were notorious lowlifes-same gene pool-and they would cause trouble. They’ve been pestering Lettie for money anyway, and if they think they’re getting cut out they’ll do something stupid.

Lucien had had a rough night, but he was there nonetheless and thinking as clearly as ever. He quickly took the position that the trial over the will must not be held in Ford County. Jake had no choice but to request a change of venue, which Atlee would probably deny, but at the very least it would give them a strong argument on appeal. Lucien had never been excited about Jake’s chances of winning before a jury, and he had long been convinced the pool had been contaminated by Booker Sistrunk. Lettie’s ill-advised decision to move to town, and into a home once owned by a slightly prominent white family, had not helped her standing in the community. There was already resentment and plenty of suspicion. She was not working and had not worked since Hubbard died. And now this. Now she had the most hated name in the county. Filing for divorce was not even an option-it had to be done. But, the divorce could not possibly be finished by the time the trial started on April 3. Her name was Lang in the will; it was Lang now; and it would be Lang during the trial. Put him, Lucien, in Wade Lanier’s shoes, and he would have the jury loathing every Lang who ever lived.

“Sorry, Portia,” Lucien said. “No offense. That’s just the way it would be.” She understood, or at least tried to. She was too exhausted to say much. She had left her mother and sisters wrapped in their bathrobes, huddled by the fireplace, with the gun on the mantel, wondering whether they should send the children to school and what they should tell them. Kirk, a sophomore at Clanton High, knew the Roston boys and was swearing he would never return to the school. They were such nice boys. And he hated his father. His life was over. He wanted to get away, like Portia, join the Army and never come back.

Jake and Harry Rex had discussed ways to postpone the trial. Drag it out, burn some clock, give Harry Rex enough time to get the divorce final, give the system enough time to dispose of Simeon and ship him away, and give the county some distance between the horror of the moment, the two burials, and the fight over the estate of Seth Hubbard. Where would they all be in six months? Lettie would be divorced; she could even adopt her old name. Lettie Tayber. It sounded much better, though Portia reminded herself she would still be stuck with Lang. Simeon would be gone. Sistrunk would be all but forgotten. Surely, things would be more conducive to a fair trial in six months. His opponents would object vociferously, and with such momentum on their side, why not?

Jake was slightly optimistic he could have a chat with Judge Atlee, perhaps another late Friday afternoon meeting on the porch with whiskey sours, and after the edge was knocked off he could broach the notion of a delay or change of venue. It was worth a try. The only downside was the risk of angering the judge by such an overt attempt at earwigging, and what would the judge do other than to tell Jake to shut up? He wouldn’t do that, not after a couple of whiskey sours. He might not like the conversation, but he would never chastise Jake. A slight scolding maybe, but nothing close to permanent damage.

Let some time pass, Jake said. Let the rage and horror and sadness lose some of their sting, then die down. They would file the divorce on Monday, and in a week or so Jake would approach Judge Atlee.

Quince Lundy arrived for one of two weekly visits. He found them in the conference room, gathered glumly around the table, quiet, subdued, almost mournful as they stared at the walls and looked at a bleak future. He had heard the news on the Clanton radio station as he drove over from Smithfield. He wanted to ask what the tragedy meant for the trial, but after a few moments in the conference room he suspected the trial was in serious trouble.

Willie Hastings was one of four black deputies on Ozzie’s staff. His cousin was Gwen Hailey, wife of Carl Lee, mother of Tonya, who was now thirteen years old and doing well. He knocked on the front door of the Sappington house and waited as he heard feet shuffling hurriedly inside. Finally, the door cracked and Lettie peeked through it.

Willie said, “Mornin’ Miss Lang. Sheriff Walls sent me over.”

The door opened wider and she managed a smile. “That you, Willie?” she said. “Would you like to come in?”

He entered and found the children in the den watching television, obviously skipping school. He followed Lettie to the kitchen where Phedra fixed him a cup of coffee. He chatted with the women, made some notes about the threatening calls, noticed the phone was now off the hook, and said he would hang around for a while. He was parked in the driveway and would stay there in case they needed him, and to show a presence. Sheriff Walls sends his regrets. Simeon was in a cell by himself, pretty banged up, and still sleeping off his booze. Hastings did not know the Rostons and had not spoken with them, but he understood they were at home surrounded by family and friends. Lettie handed him a letter she had written during the early morning and asked if he could make sure it was delivered to the Rostons. “Just our way of saying how awful we feel,” she said.

Willie promised to have it in their hands before noon.

They topped off his coffee and he went outside. The temperature was still below freezing, but the heater worked well in his patrol car. Throughout the morning, he sipped coffee, watched the street, saw nothing, and tried to stay awake.

An early news show on the Tupelo station ran the story at 7:00 a.m. Stillman Rush was in the shower and missed it, but an associate did not. Phone calls were made; details verified; and an hour later Stillman called Wade Lanier in Jackson with the tragic but also promising news. Lightning had struck. No juror in Ford County would ever have a shot at Simeon Lang, but his wife had just become an easy target.