Sycamore Row

38

Before his wife died, Judge and Mrs. Atlee once went eight consecutive years without missing Sunday worship at the First Presbyterian Church. Fifty-two Sundays in a row, for eight years. A flu virus halted the streak. Then she passed on, and the judge lost some focus and actually missed once or twice a year. But not often. He was such a presence in the church that his absence was always noted. He wasn’t there the Sunday before the trial began, and when Jake realized it he allowed his mind to wander during the sermon. Could the old guy be sick? If so, might the trial be postponed? How would this affect his strategy? A dozen questions and no answers.

After church, Jake and his girls returned to the Hocutt House where Willie was preparing a brunch on the back porch. He insisted on hosting the new owners, claiming he wanted to meet Hanna and show her around. All top secret of course. Jake and Carla would have preferred to keep their daughter out of it for the moment, but they could hardly suppress their excitement. Hanna promised to keep this rather significant secret. After a tour, which included Hanna’s tentative selection of her new bedroom, they settled around a plank farm table on the porch and had French toast and scrambled eggs.

Willie moved the conversation away from the house and to the trial. Fluidly, he became a journalist again, probing and nibbling around the edges of sensitive material. Twice Carla shot warning glances at Jake, who realized what was happening. When Willie asked if they could expect any evidence that Seth Hubbard had been intimate with Lettie Lang, Jake politely said he couldn’t answer that question. The brunch became a little awkward as Jake grew quieter while his host kept chatting on about rumors he was chasing. Was it true Lettie had offered to split the money and settle the case? Jake replied firmly that he could not comment. There was so much gossip. When Willie pursued another question about “intimacy,” Carla said, “Please, Willie, there’s a seven-year-old present.”

“Yes, sorry.”

Hanna was not missing a word.

After an hour, Jake looked at his watch and said he had to get to the office. It would be a long afternoon and night. Willie poured some more coffee as they thanked him and placed their napkins on the table. It took fifteen minutes to gracefully say good-bye. As they drove away, Hanna stared at the house through the car’s rear window and said, “I like our new house. When can we move in?”

“Soon, honey,” Carla said.

“Where’s Mr. Willie going to live?”

“Oh, he has several houses,” Jake said. “Don’t worry about him.”

“He’s such a nice man.”

“Yes, he is,” Carla said.

Lucien followed the detective into the room where Lonny sat waiting expectantly with a stout nurse at his side, sentry-like. She was not smiling and seemed irritated by this intrusion. One of the doctors had reluctantly acceded to the request for a few questions. Lonny’s condition had improved overnight and he was feeling better, but his team was still protective. They didn’t like lawyers anyway.

“This is the guy I told you about, Lonny,” the detective said, without the slightest attempt at an introduction. Lucien, in his black suit, stood down by Lonny’s feet and offered a phony smile. “Mr. Clark, my name is Lucien Wilbanks, and I work for a lawyer in Clanton, Mississippi,” he said.

Lonny had seen the face before, hadn’t he? In the middle of the night, the face had appeared and disappeared like a ghost. “A pleasure,” Lonny said, as if still groggy, though his mind had not been this clear since before the blow to his skull.

Lucien said, “We’re involved in some litigation that makes it imperative that we locate a man named Ancil Hubbard. Mr. Hubbard was born in Ford County, Mississippi, on August 1, 1922. His father was Cleon Hubbard, his mother was Sarah Belle Hubbard, and he had one brother, Seth, who was five years older. We’ve been searching high and low for Ancil Hubbard, and it’s come to our attention that there’s a chance you might know him or perhaps your paths have crossed in recent years.”

Lonny said, “You’ve come all the way from Mississippi?”

“Sure, but it’s no big deal. We have airplanes down there too. And we’ve covered the continent looking for Ancil.”

“What kind of litigation?” Lonny asked, with the same disdain most people heap onto the unsavory subject.

“Some pretty complicated stuff. Seth Hubbard died suddenly about six months ago and he left behind a mess. A lot of business interests and not much in the way of estate planning. Our job as lawyers is to first try and round up the family, which in the case of the Hubbards is quite a task. We have reason to believe you might know something about Ancil Hubbard. Is this right?”

Lonny closed his eyes as a wave of pain rolled through his head. He reopened them, looked at the ceiling, and said softly, “That name doesn’t ring a bell, sorry.”

As if he was either expecting this or not hearing it, Lucien went on, “Can you think of anyone in your past who might have known Ancil Hubbard, or mentioned his name? Help me here, Mr. Clark. Think back. It looks like you’ve moved around a lot, so you’ve known many people in many places. I know you got a sore head and all, but take your time, think real hard about this.”

Again, he said, “That name does not ring a bell.”

The nurse glared at Lucien and seemed ready to pounce. He did not acknowledge her presence. He carefully sat his battered leather briefcase on the foot of the bed so Lonny could see it. It probably contained something important. Lucien said, “Have you ever been to Mississippi, Mr. Clark?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Sure I’m sure.”

“Well, hey, that’s a real surprise, because we thought you were born there. We’ve paid a lot of money to some high-priced investigators who’ve been tracking Ancil Hubbard. When your name popped up, they took off after you and found several Lonny Clarks. One of them was born in Mississippi sixty-six years ago. You are sixty-six years old, aren’t you, Mr. Clark?”

Lonny stared at him, overwhelmed and uncertain. Slowly, he said, “I am.”

“So what’s your connection to Ancil Hubbard?”

The nurse said, “He said he didn’t know him.”

Lucien snapped at her: “And I’m not talking to you! This is an important legal matter, a big case involving dozens of lawyers, several courts, and a pile of money, and if I need you to stick your nose into the middle of it, then I’ll let you know. Until then, please butt out.” Her cheeks blushed crimson as she gasped for breath.

Lonny despised that particular nurse and said to her, “Don’t speak for me, okay? I can take care of myself.” The nurse, completely chastised, took a step back from the bed. Lucien and Lonny, now joined in their contempt for the nurse, looked at each other carefully. Lonny said, “I’ll have to sleep on it. My memory is coming and going these days, and they got me so doped up, you know?”

“I’ll be happy to wait,” Lucien said. “It’s very important that we find Ancil Hubbard.” He pulled a business card from a pocket and handed it to Lonny. “This is my boss, Jake Brigance. You can call him and check me out. He’s the lead lawyer in the case.”

“And you’re a lawyer too?” Lonny asked.

“I am. I just ran out of cards. I’m staying at the Glacier Inn on Third Street.”

Late in the afternoon, Herschel Hubbard unlocked the door to his father’s house and stepped inside. It had been empty now, for how long? He paused and did the math. His father had killed himself on October 2, a Sunday. Today was April 2, a Sunday. To his knowledge, the house had not been cleaned since the day Lettie was fired, the day after the funeral. A thick layer of dust covered the television console and bookcases. The smell was of stale tobacco and stagnant air. He flipped a switch and the lights came on. He’d been told that Quince Lundy, the administrator, was in charge of paying the utility bills. The kitchen counters were spotless; the refrigerator empty. A faucet dripped slowly into a brown stain in the porcelain sink. He made his way to the rear of the house, and in the room he’d once called his own he slapped the bedspread to stir the dust, then he stretched out on the bed and gazed at the ceiling.

In six months, he’d gone through the fortune several times, spending as he pleased but also doubling and tripling it with shrewd investments. At times he felt like a millionaire; at others he was consumed with the awful emptiness of seeing the riches slip away and being left with nothing. Why did the old man do it? Herschel was willing to accept and shoulder more than his share of responsibility for their fractious relationship, but he could not begin to comprehend getting cut out completely. He could have loved Seth more, but then Seth gave little love in return. He could have spent more time here, in the house, but then Seth didn’t want him around. Where had they gone wrong? How young was Herschel when he realized his father was cold and distant? A child can’t chase a father who has no time for him.

But Herschel had never fought his father, had never embarrassed him with open rebellion or worse-addictions, arrests, a life of crime. He parted with Seth when he was eighteen and left home to become a man. If he neglected Seth as an adult, it was because Seth had neglected him as a little boy. A child is not born with the tendency to neglect; it has to be acquired. Herschel learned from a master.

Would the money have changed things? If Herschel had known the extent of his father’s wealth, what would he have done differently? One hell of a lot, he was finally admitting to himself. Initially, he had taken the high road and said, at least to his mother, that he wouldn’t have changed a thing. No sir. If Seth wanted no part of his only son, then the son would certainly allow him to have it that way. Now, though, as time passed and his own unhappy world was growing darker, Herschel knew he would have been here, in the house, taking care of his dear old dad. He would have shown an enthusiastic burst of interest in lumber and furniture. He would have begged Seth to teach him the business and possibly groom him as a successor. He would have swallowed hard and returned to Ford County, renting a place somewhere nearby. And, he definitely would have kept an eye on Lettie Lang.

Getting shut out of such a large inheritance was so humiliating. His friends had whispered behind his back. His enemies had reveled in his misfortune. His ex-wife loathed him almost as much as she despised Seth, and she had gleefully spread the awful but true gossip around Memphis. Even though her children also got the ax, she couldn’t stop herself from piling on poor Herschel. For six months he had found it difficult to run his business and concentrate on his affairs. The bills and debts were adding up; his mother was becoming less sympathetic and helpful. On two occasions she had asked him to leave her home and find another place to live. He wanted to, but he couldn’t afford it.

His fate now lay in the hands of a crafty lawyer named Wade Lanier, a cranky old judge named Reuben Atlee, and a haphazard gang of accidental jurors in rural Mississippi. At times he was confident. Justice would prevail; right over wrong and all that. It was simply wrong for a housekeeper, whatever her skin color, to appear in the final years of a long life and manipulate things in such a fiendish manner. Fairness was on their side. At other times, though, he could still feel the unspeakable pain of having it slip away. If it could happen once, it could certainly happen again.

The walls inched closer and the musty air grew thicker. It had been a joyless home with two parents who despised each other. He cursed them for a while, both of them equally, then concentrated more on Seth. Why have children if you don’t want them? But he had wrestled with these questions for years and there were no answers. Let it go.

Enough. He locked the house, left it, and drove to Clanton, where he was expected around 6:00 p.m. Ian and Ramona were already there, in the large conference room on the second floor of the Sullivan firm. Their ace jury consultant, Myron Pankey, was going on about their meticulous research when Herschel arrived. Cursory greetings and introductions were made. Pankey had two staffers with him, two attractive young ladies preoccupied with note-taking.

Wade Lanier and Lester Chilcott sat at the center on one side of the table, flanked by paralegals. Pankey was saying, “Our phone survey also revealed that when given the additional facts that the will was written by a wealthy man, age seventy, and the caregiver was an attractive woman much younger, over half of those surveyed asked if sex was involved. We never mentioned sex, but it’s often the automatic response. What was really going on? Race was never mentioned, but of the black respondents almost 80 percent were suspicious of sexual activity. Of the white, 55 percent.”

“So the issue is very much in the air, though unspoken,” Lanier said.

Didn’t we know this six months ago? Herschel asked himself as he doodled on a legal pad. So far, they had paid Pankey two-thirds of his $75,000 fee. The money was now being fronted by Wade Lanier’s law firm, which was paying all the litigation expenses. Ian had chipped in $20,000; Herschel nothing. If there was a recovery, there would also be a war dividing it.

Pankey passed out thick booklets for their reading pleasure, though the lawyers had already spent hours with the material. Beginning with Ambrose and ending with Young, there was a one- or two-page summary of each juror. Many included photos of homes and automobiles, and a few had actual photos of the jurors. These were taken from church and club directories, high school yearbooks, and a few candid shots handed over on the sly by friends.

Pankey was saying, “Our perfect juror is a Caucasian over the age of fifty. The younger people went to integrated schools and tend to be more tolerant on race, and obviously we are not looking for tolerance. Sadly for us, the more racist the better. White women are slightly preferable over white men, and this is because they tend to show more jealousy toward another woman who has managed to manipulate the will. A man might excuse another man for fooling around with his housekeeper, but a woman is not so understanding.”

Seventy-five thousand for this? Herschel doodled to himself. Isn’t this fairly obvious? He shot a bored look at his sister, who was looking old and tired. Things were not going well with Ian, and the Hubbard siblings had spoken on the phone more in the past three months than in the past ten years. Ian’s deals were not paying off, and the strained marriage was continuing to crack. Ian spent most of his time on the Gulf Coast where he and some partners were renovating a mall. This was fine with her; she didn’t want him at home. She talked openly of divorce, to Herschel anyway. But if they lost this case, she might be stuck. We’re not going to lose, Herschel kept reassuring her.

They slogged through the research until 7:30, when Wade Lanier said he’d had enough. They drove to a fish shack overlooking Lake Chatulla, and enjoyed a long meal, just the lawyers and their clients. After a few drinks their nerves were settled, and they managed to relax. Like most trial lawyers, Wade Lanier was a gifted storyteller and he regaled them with hilarious tales from his courtroom brawls. More than once, he said, “We’re gonna win, folks. Just trust me.”

Lucien was in his hotel room, a Jack on the rocks on his nightstand, his nose stuck deep into another impenetrable Faulkner novel, when the phone rang. A weak voice on the other end said, “Is this Mr. Wilbanks?”

“It is,” Lucien said, gently closing the book and swinging his feet to the floor.

“This is Lonny Clark, Mr. Wilbanks.”

“Please call me Lucien, and I’ll call you Lonny, okay?”

“Okay.”

“How are you feeling tonight, Lonny?”

“Better, much better. You came to my room last night, didn’t you, Lucien? I know you did. I thought I was dreaming last night when a stranger appeared in my room and said something to me, but then when I met you today I recognized you and I recalled your voice.”

“I’m afraid you were indeed dreaming, Lonny.”

“No, I wasn’t. Because you came the night before too. Friday night and Saturday night, it was you. I know it was.”

“No one can get in your room, Lonny. There’s a cop at the door, around the clock I’m told.”

Lonny paused as if he didn’t know this; or if he did, then how could a stranger sneak into his room? Finally he said, “The stranger said something about Sylvester Rinds. Do you know Sylvester Rinds, Lucien?”

“Where is he from?” Lucien asked, casually taking a sip.

“I’m asking you, Lucien. Do you know Sylvester Rinds?”

“I’ve lived in Ford County all my life, Lonny. I know everyone, black and white. But something tells me Sylvester Rinds died before I was born. Did you know him?”

“I don’t know. It’s all so muddled now. And so long ago …” His voice faded as if he’d dropped the phone.

Keep him talking, Lucien said to himself. “I’m much more interested in Ancil Hubbard,” he said. “Any luck with that name, Lonny?”

Weakly, he said, “I might be onto something. Can you stop by tomorrow?”

“Of course. What time?”

“Come early. I’m not as tired in the mornings.”

“What time will the doctors be finished with their rounds?”

“I don’t know. Nine or so.”

“I’ll be there at nine thirty, Lonny.”