Sycamore Row

31

The effort to validate the handwritten will of Seth Hubbard continued to unravel late Sunday morning, though Jake and its proponents had no way of knowing it. Randall Clapp was sniffing around the town of Dillwyn, in extreme south Georgia, some six miles from the Florida line, when he finally found a black woman he’d been tracking for a week. Her name was Julina Kidd, age thirty-nine, a divorced mother of two.

Five years earlier, Julina worked in a large furniture factory near Thomasville, Georgia. She was a clerk in payroll, earned $15,000 a year, and was surprised to hear one day that the company had been bought by a faceless corporation with an Alabama domicile. Not long afterward, the new owner, a Mr. Hubbard, showed up and said hello.

One month later, Julina was fired. One week after that she filed a sexual harassment complaint with Equal Employment. The complaint was dismissed three weeks after it was filed. Her lawyer in Valdosta would not discuss the case with Clapp, said he’d lost contact with Julina, and had no idea where she was.

When Clapp found her she was living in subsidized housing with her two teenagers and a younger sister, and she was working part-time for an oil jobber. Initially, she had little interest in talking to an unknown white man. Clapp, though, did this for a living and was adept at extracting information. He offered her $200 in cash, plus lunch, for one hour of her time and direct answers to his questions. They met at a truck stop and ordered the special, baked chicken. Clapp, a simmering racist who would never be tempted to chase a black woman, struggled to control his thoughts. This one was a knockout-beautiful dark skin with a touch of cream, hazel eyes that penetrated to the core, high African cheekbones, perfect teeth that revealed an easy, seductive smile. She was reserved and her eyebrows were perpetually arched, as if she suspected every word he uttered.

He didn’t tell her much, not at first anyway. He said he was involved in some high-powered litigation with Seth Hubbard on the other side, and he knew they had a history. Yes, he was digging for dirt.

She had it. Seth had come on to her like an eighteen-year-old sailor on shore leave. At the time, she was thirty-four and in the late stages of a bad divorce. She was fragile and frightened about her future. She had no interest in a sixty-six-year-old white man who smelled like an ashtray, regardless of how many companies he owned. But he was persistent and spent a lot of his time at the Thomasville factory. He gave her a substantial raise and moved her to a desk near his office. He fired the old secretary and appointed Julina as his “executive assistant.” She could not type.

He owned two furniture factories in Mexico and needed to visit them. He arranged for Julina to obtain a passport and asked her if she wanted to accompany him. She took it more as a demand than an invitation. But she had never left the country and was mildly intrigued by the notion of seeing a bit of the world, even though she knew a compromise would be involved.

“I doubt if Seth was the first white man to chase you,” Clapp said.

She smiled slightly, nodded her head, and said, “No. It does happen.” Again, Clapp tried to control his thoughts. Why was she still single? And living in a subsidized apartment? Any woman, black or white, with her looks and figure could parlay them into a much better life.

Her first trip on an airplane was to Mexico City. They checked into a luxury hotel-two adjoining rooms. The dreaded knock on her door came that night, and she opened it. Afterward, lying in bed with him, she was disgusted by what she had done. Sex for money. At the moment, she was nothing but a prostitute. She bit her tongue, though, and as soon as he disappeared the next day she took a cab to the airport. When he returned a week later, she was fired on the spot and escorted out of the office by an armed guard. She hired a lawyer who slapped a sexual harassment claim on Seth, whose own lawyer was horrified by the facts. They quickly capitulated and wanted to settle. After some haggling, Seth agreed to a lump sum payment of $125,000 in a confidential deal. Her lawyer kept $25,000, and she had been living off the rest. She wasn’t supposed to reveal that to anyone, but what the hell. It had been five years.

“Don’t worry, Seth’s dead,” Clapp said, then told her the rest of the story. She listened as she chewed the elastic chicken and washed it down with sugared iced tea. She had no feelings for Seth and did not pretend to. She had practically forgotten about the old man.

“Did he ever say anything about preferring black women?”

“He said he didn’t discriminate,” she said, slower now. “He said I wasn’t the first black one.”

“When did he say these things?”

“Pillow talk, you know? I’m not getting involved in a lawsuit.”

“Didn’t say you were,” Clapp tried to reassure her, but she was even more careful. Clapp knew he had once again stumbled onto something huge but played it cool. “But I’m sure the lawyers I work for would be willing to pay for your testimony.”

“Is that legal?”

“Of course it’s legal. Lawyers pay for testimony all the time. Every expert charges a fortune. Plus they fly you up there and cover your expenses.”

“How much?”

“Don’t know but we can talk about it later. Can I ask you something that’s, well, rather delicate?”

“Oh why not? What have we not discussed?”

“When you were with Seth, how was he, know what I mean? He was sixty-six then, and he hired this black housekeeper a couple of years later. This was long before he got sick. The old boy was getting on in years, but sounds like he was fairly frisky, you know?”

“He was all right. I mean, for a man his age he was pretty good.” She said this as though she’d had many, and of all ages. “I got the impression he just wanted to hole up in the room and screw for a week. That’s kind of impressive for an old guy, black or white.”

Wade Lanier was having a beer in the men’s grill at the country club when Clapp tracked him down. He teed off every Sunday morning at precisely 7:45 with the same three pals, played eighteen holes, usually won more money than he lost, then drank beer for a couple of hours over poker. He quickly forgot about the cards and the beer and made Clapp repeat every word of his conversation with Julina Kidd.

Most of what she said would not be admissible in court; however, the fact that she could take the stand, let the jury absorb her ethnicity, and chat about her claim for sexual harassment at the hands of Seth Hubbard would sway any white jury to believe the old guy and Lettie were probably doing business. They would believe that Lettie had gotten as close as humanly possible, and she had influenced him. She had used her body to work her way into his will. Lanier couldn’t prove it by a preponderance of evidence, but he could certainly imply it in a powerful way.

He left the country club and drove to his office.

Early Monday morning, Ian and Ramona Dafoe drove three hours from Jackson to Memphis and had a late breakfast with Herschel. Their relationship had deteriorated and it was time to patch things up, or that’s what Ramona said anyway. They were on the same side; it was foolish for them to bicker and distrust one another. They met at a pancake house, and, after the usual efforts at reconciliation, Ian launched into a strong-armed plea for Herschel to ditch Stillman Rush and his firm. His lawyer, Wade Lanier, was far more experienced, and, frankly, was worried that Rush would be a hindrance at trial. He was a pretty boy, too showy, cocky, and likely to alienate the jury. Lanier had watched him closely now for over four months and did not like what he saw. There was a big ego and not much talent. Trials can be won or lost by the arrogance of a lawyer, and Wade Lanier was worried sick. He was even threatening to bail out.

And there was more. As evidence of the inequality of their lawyers, Ian revealed the story of the other will and its attempted bequest of $50,000 to Lettie. He did not name names because he didn’t want Stillman Rush to screw up things. Herschel was stunned, but also thrilled. But wait-it gets better. Now Wade Lanier had found a black woman who sued Seth for sexual harassment.

Look at what my lawyer is doing, and compare it to yours. Your boy is not in the game, Herschel. Lanier understands guerrilla warfare; your lawyer is a Boy Scout. Let’s join forces here. Lanier even has a deal to offer: if we come together, get rid of Rush, and allow Lanier to represent both of us, he’ll cut his fee to 25 percent of any settlement. He has a strategy to force a settlement, especially in light of what his chief investigator is digging up. He’ll pick the right moment and spring it all on Jake Brigance, who’ll crack under the pressure. We can have the money within a few months!

Herschel held his ground for a while, but eventually agreed to drive to Jackson and meet with Lanier in secret.

Simeon Lang was finishing Monday’s dinner of pork and beans from a can and four slices of stale white bread when the jailer appeared and stuck a package through the bars. “Happy reading,” he said and walked away. It was from the law offices of Harry Rex Vonner.

Inside was a letter from the lawyer, addressed to Simeon, care of the Ford County jail, and the letter tersely announced to Simeon that what followed was a Complaint for Divorce. He had thirty days to respond.

He read it slowly. What was the hurry? Habitual cruel and inhuman treatment; adultery; desertion; physical abuse. Page after page of allegations, some of them wild, some of them true. What difference did it make? He’d killed two boys and was headed to Parchman for a long time. His life was over. Lettie needed someone else. She hadn’t been to see him since they locked him up, and he doubted she would ever visit. Not here, not in Parchman. Portia had stopped by to say hello but didn’t hang around too long.

“What’re you reading?” asked Denny from the top bunk. Denny was his new cell mate who’d been caught driving a stolen car. Simeon was already tired of him. He preferred living alone, though at times it was almost pleasant having someone to talk to.

“My wife just filed for divorce,” he said.

“Lucky you. I’ve had two of them already. They get kinda crazy when you’re in jail.”

“If you say so. You ever had a restrainin’ order?”

“No, but my brother did. Bitch convinced a judge he was dangerous, which he was, and a judge told him to stay away from the house and keep his distance in public. Didn’t bother him. Killed her anyway.”

“Your brother killed his wife?”

“Yep, but she had it coming. It was justifiable homicide, but the jury didn’t exactly see it that way. Found him guilty of second-degree.”

“Where is he?”

“Angola, Louisiana, twenty years. That’s about what you’ll get, accordin’ to my lawyer.”

“Your lawyer?”

“Yeah, I asked him this afternoon when I saw him. He knows about your case, said the whole town is talkin’ about it, said folks are really upset. Said your wife’s about to get rich from this big will contest but your ass’ll be locked away for the next twenty years. By the time you get out all the money’ll be gone, what with all the new friends she’s got. That true?”

“Ask your lawyer.”

“How’d your wife get herself into that old man’s will like that? Said he left behind twenty million bucks or so, that true?”

“Ask your lawyer.”

“I’ll do that. Didn’t mean to piss you off or anything.”

“I ain’t pissed. Just don’t want to talk about it, okay?”

“You got it, man.” Denny picked up his paperback and started reading.

Simeon stretched out on the bottom bunk and went back to page one. In twenty years he would be sixty-six. Lettie would have another husband and a much better life. She would have the children and grandchildren and probably great-grandchildren, and he would have nothing.

He wouldn’t fight the divorce. She could have it all.

Maybe he could see Marvis in prison.