Sycamore Row

30

Early Thursday morning Simeon Lang was awakened, fed, handcuffed, and escorted out of his cell and down a hallway to a cramped meeting room where a stranger was waiting. He sat in a folding chair, still handcuffed, and listened as the stranger said, “My name is Arthur Welch and I’m a lawyer from Clarksdale, over in the Delta.”

“I know where Clarksdale is,” Simeon said. He had a large bandage taped across his nose. His left eye was shut with stitches around the edge.

“Good for you,” Welch said. “I’m here to represent you because no one else will take the case. You have a first appearance and bail hearing this morning at nine, and you’ll need a lawyer.”

“Why are you here?”

“A friend asked me to be here, okay? That’s all you need to know. Right now you need a lawyer, and I’m the only sonofabitch willing to stand beside you.”

Simeon nodded slightly.

At 8:30, he was transferred to the courthouse and hustled up the rear stairs to the main courtroom, where he entered the temporary domain of the Honorable Percy Bullard, County Court judge. His own courtroom was down the hall, and quite small, so he preferred to use the big room when it was vacant, which was at least half the time. He’d spent most of his sixteen years on the bench handling minor civil disputes and lighter felonies, but occasionally he was called upon to process and speed along a more serious case. With the county in mourning and tensions high, he decided to haul in Lang, rough him up a bit, and let folks know that the wheels of justice were turning.

Word had spread quickly and there were spectators in the courtroom. At 9:00 a.m. sharp, Simeon was led in, and a guiltier defendant had never been seen. His face was a mess. His orange county jail overalls were too big and bloodstained. He was handcuffed behind his back, and the bailiffs took their sweet time freeing him.

Judge Bullard looked at him and said, “State versus Simeon Lang. Over here.” He pointed to a spot in front of the bench. Simeon shuffled over, glancing around nervously as if he might get shot from behind. Arthur Welch stood beside him while somehow managing to keep his distance.

“You are Simeon Lang?” Judge Bullard asked.

Simeon nodded.

“Speak up!”

“I am.”

“Thanks. And you are?”

“Your Honor, my name is Arthur Welch and I practice law over in Clarksdale. I’m here to represent Mr. Lang.”

Bullard looked at him as if to say, “What the hell for?” Instead, he asked Simeon, “Mr. Lang, is Mr. Welch your lawyer?”

“He is.”

“Okay, now Mr. Lang, you have been charged with two counts of vehicular homicide and one count of driving under the influence. How do you plead?”

“Not guilty.”

“No surprise there. I’ll set a preliminary hearing in about thirty days. Mr. Welch, you will be notified by my clerk. I assume you’d like to discuss bail.”

As if reading from a script, Welch said, “Yes, Your Honor, we would like to request a reasonable bail at this time. Mr. Lang has a wife and family here in the county and has lived here his entire life. He is not a risk to flee and has assured me, and will assure you, that he always shows up in court when required to.”

“Thank you. Bail is hereby set at $2 million, one million for each count of vehicular homicide. Anything else, Mr. Welch?”

“No, Your Honor.”

“Very well. Mr. Lang you are remanded to the custody of the Ford County sheriff until you make bail or are called for by this court.” He tapped his gavel lightly and winked at Welch. Simeon was re-handcuffed and taken from the courtroom. Welch followed him, and outside, under the rear terrace, exactly where the criminal defendants were always photographed when they were newsworthy enough to be photographed, Dumas Lee clicked away and got plenty of shots of Lang and his lawyer. Later, he chatted with Welch, who had little to report but was nonetheless quite willing to talk. He was completely vague on his involvement in a case two hours from home.

Welch had been rolled out of bed at 5:00 that morning with a profane phone call from Harry Rex Vonner, an old roommate from law school. Welch had handled two of Harry Rex’s divorces and Harry Rex had handled two of Welch’s, and they owed each other so many favors and debts and IOUs that keeping score was impossible. Harry Rex needed him instantly in Clanton, and Welch, cursing for two hours, made the drive. He had no plans to represent Simeon Lang beyond the indictment and would punt the case in a month or so.

As Harry Rex explained, in some of the most colorful and abusive language imaginable, it was important for the local folks to see and realize that Simeon Lang was not represented by Jake Brigance, but rather by some scumbag they’d never heard of.

Welch understood perfectly. It was another clear example of what was never taught in law school.

It was early on Friday afternoon, the weather was cold and damp, and Jake was suffering through the weekly ritual of trying to tie up some of the week’s loose ends so they wouldn’t grow and fester and ruin his Monday. Among his many unwritten but nonetheless serious rules was one that required him to return every phone call by noon Friday. He preferred to avoid most of his phone calls, but that was not possible. Returning them was easy to put off. They often slid from one workday to the next, but he was determined not to drag them through the weekend. Another rule forbade him to take worthless cases that would pay little or nothing and turn his obnoxious clients into people he could choke. But, like every other lawyer, he routinely said yes to some deadbeat whose mother taught Jake in the fourth grade, or whose uncle knew his father, or the broke widow from church who couldn’t afford a lawyer but couldn’t live without one. Invariably, these matters turned into “fish files,” the ones that grew fouler the longer they sat in a corner, untouched. Every lawyer had them. Every lawyer hated them. Every lawyer swore he would never take another; you could almost smell them the first time the client walked in the door.

Freedom for Jake would be an office free from fish files, and he still approached every new year with the determination to say no to the deadbeats. Years ago, Lucien had said repeatedly, “It’s not the cases you take that make you, it’s the cases you don’t take.” Just say no. Nonetheless, his special drawer for fish files was depressingly full, and every Friday afternoon he stared at them and cursed himself.

Without knocking, Portia walked into his office, obviously upset. She was patting her chest as if she couldn’t breathe. “There’s a man here,” she said, almost in a whisper because she couldn’t speak any louder.

“Are you okay?” he asked, once again tossing aside a fish file.

She shook her head rapidly. “No. It’s Mr. Roston. The boys’ father.”

“What?” Jake said as he bolted to his feet.

She kept patting her chest. “He wants to see you.”

“Why?”

“Please, Jake, don’t tell him who I am.” They stared at each other for a second, neither with a clue.

“Okay, okay. Put him in the conference room. I’ll be down in a minute.”

Jeff Roston was not much older than Jake, but under the circumstances he was a very old man. He sat with his hands together and his shoulders sagging, as if burdened by an enormous weight. He wore heavily starched khakis and a navy blazer, and looked more like a casual preppy than a man who grew soybeans. He also wore the face of a father in the midst of an unspeakable nightmare. He rose and they shook hands and Jake said, “I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Roston.”

“Thank you. Let’s go with Jeff and Jake, okay?”

“Sure.” Jake sat beside him along one side of the table and they faced each other. After an awkward pause, Jake said, “I can’t imagine what you’re going through.”

“No, you can’t,” he said softly and slowly, each word laden with grief. “I can’t either. I think we’re just sort of sleepwalking, you know, just going through the motions, trying to survive this hour so we can deal with the next one. We’re praying for time. Praying for the days to turn into weeks and then months, and then maybe one day years from now the nightmare will be over and we can manage the pain and the sorrow. But at the same time we know that’ll never happen. You’re not supposed to bury your kids, Jake. It’s just not the natural course of things.”

Jake nodded along, unable to add anything thoughtful or intelligent or helpful. What do you say to a father whose two sons were now lying in caskets waiting for their funeral? “I can’t begin to comprehend,” Jake said. His initial reaction was “What does he want?”-and now, minutes later, Jake was still wondering.

“The service is tomorrow,” Jake said after a long heavy pause.

“That’s right. Another nightmare.” Jeff’s eyes were red and weary and proof he had not slept in days. He could not maintain a direct stare, but chose instead to look down at his knees. He gently tapped all ten fingers together as if in deep meditation. He finally said, “We received a very nice note from Lettie Lang. It was hand delivered by Sheriff Walls, who, I must say, has been wonderful. He said the two of you are friends.” Jake nodded, listened, offered nothing. Jeff continued, “The note was heartfelt and conveyed the family’s sense of grief and guilt. It meant a lot to Evelyn and me. We could tell that Lettie is a fine Christian lady who’s horrified at what her husband did. Could you please thank her for us?”

“Of course.”

He again stared at his knees, tapped his fingertips, breathed slowly as if even that was painful, then he said, “I want you to tell them something else, Jake, if you don’t mind, something I’d like for you to pass along to Lettie and her family, even to her husband.”

Sure. Anything. What would Jake not do for such a grief-stricken father?

“Are you a Christian, Jake?”

“I am. Sometimes more of one than others, but I’m trying.”

“I thought so. In the sixth chapter of the Gospel of Luke, Jesus teaches the importance of forgiveness. He knows we’re human and our natural tendency is to seek revenge, to strike back, to condemn those who hurt us, but this is wrong. We’re supposed to forgive, always. So I’d like for you to tell Lettie and her family, and especially her husband, that Evelyn and I forgive Simeon for what he did. We’ve prayed about this. We’ve spent time with our minister. And we cannot allow ourselves to live the rest of our days filled with hatred and ill will. We forgive him, Jake. Can you tell them?”

Jake was too stunned to respond. He was aware that his jaw had dropped slightly, that his mouth was open, and that he was looking at Jeff Roston in disbelief, but for a few seconds he couldn’t adjust. How could you possibly, humanly forgive a drunk who slaughtered your two sons less than seventy-two hours earlier? He thought of Hanna, and the almost incomprehensible visual of her in a coffin. He would scream for bloody revenge.

Finally, he managed to nod. Yes, I will tell them.

Roston said, “When we bury Kyle and Bo tomorrow, when we say good-bye, we will do so with complete love and forgiveness. There’s no room for hatred, Jake.”

Jake swallowed hard and said, “That black girl out there is Lettie’s daughter. Simeon’s daughter. She works for me. Why don’t you tell her?”

Without a word, Jeff Roston rose and walked to the door. He opened it, and with Jake following he stepped into the reception area and looked at Portia. “So you’re Simeon Lang’s daughter,” he said, and she almost flinched. Slowly, she stood and faced him and said, “Yes sir.”

“Your mother sent me a very nice note. Please thank her.”

“I will, yes, thanks,” she said nervously.

“And will you tell your father that my wife, Evelyn, and I forgive him for what happened?”

Portia cupped her right hand over her mouth as her eyes suddenly moistened. Roston took a step closer and gently hugged her. Then he abruptly stepped back, said again, “We forgive him,” and walked out the front door without another word.

They stared at the door long after he left. They were speechless, overwhelmed. Finally, Jake said, “Let’s lock up and go home.”